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Copyright., 1885, 
by Harpkp. & Brothkrs 


September 17, 1886 


Subscription Price 
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BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE 


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PROLOGUE. 

I have only a few words to say about this strange Manu- 
script, which came into my hands one winter’s night. 

It was given me by one who had received it from the 
writer ; and what he has of necessity left blank, another hand 
has filled in. Let it suffice that I knew the writer and those 
of whom he speaks. 










BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE 


MANUSCRIPT I. 

SINKING DOWN. 

“Sinking down through infinite depths of the darkness.” 

Longfellow. 

Is that the murmur and hum of the vast city below? Are there 
many in that seething multitude like me, or is there one whose 
memory recalls my face and name? No, better not, oh, better not, 
lest they couple the memory with a curse! Does the same moon 
shine on them that is looking in on me grimly, mocking me with its 
ghastly brightness? Can it be true what they say? Is there any 
hell, save that in my own soul, any tortures greater than remorse? 
They tell me there is a God, all-just, all-merciful, all-powerful; but 
if so omnipotent, why did he let sin enter the world? Yet when I 
ask them that, they answer, “ It is a mystery to be believed by faith.” 
Why do I shudder at their answer? Is it like the echo of other years? 
does it seem as if I heard again the low plaintive voice of that for- 
eign child? Do I remember the past? do I not? Is there an hour, a 
word, a look, a face that I do not see and remember as if it were yes- 
terday? Do I not live over again every moment of my life, back, back 
to my childhood? I was innocent then, O God! I was innocent then! 

Do I recall the sunlit nursery where I played as a child, but often- 
er, far oftener knelt by the window, looking drearily out through the 
bars into the crowded street, and wondering, in a sad vague way, 
what it would be like to have brothers and sisters of my own age, 
and a fair, gentle-spoken, golden-haired mother, such as I never 
knew, who might have taught me to be good? 

Do I recall that when I heard any of my child-playmates talk, it 
might be of having been to church last Sunday, or of having said 
the Lord’s Prayer to their mother, I laughed scoffingly, and asked 
them, “ What was that?” and felt a strange pride and pleasure at their 
wonder and shrinking from me. Was I not a type of the secret that 
makes at least half the scoffers and infidels? Yet it was no pretence 
to ask them “ What was that?” How should I know, who never heard 
it? My mother sneered at what men called religion; and instead of 
it, spoke to me and let me read of strange beliefs and theories of the 


4 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


German school, at once sceptical and visionary. I took it in too 
well, and yet I can remember that through it all there would some- 
times struggle upward, like a flower choked by weeds, a vague yearn- 
ing for something more pure and simple ; something that in after- 
years often checked the sneer on my very lips, and made me shrink 
in terror. What if it should be? what if, after all, that foreign child 
was right? Shall I ever get the memory of her face away from my 
mental vision? Am I going mad? Is the mind I have misused gone 
before me to the powers of darkness? I dare not believe. She 
would be there to accuse me, with that face, with that voice, “That 
is the man!” 

Oh, for one touch of what I never knew ! Oh, for one grain of 
faith! 


MANUSCRIPT II. 

THE STRANGE RIDER. 

Do I remember the earlier years as distinctly as those nearer? 
Yes, every detail but too minutely. Shall I go back to the very day 
she came, a child to my mother’s house? I was past early boyhood 
then, being sixteen. Can I do it? Well, well, no matter; it must be. 

It was a fine afternoon in autumn, so fine that I soon forsook the 
house and wandered out. Though restless and companionless, I 
found myself straying back in an hour, or it might be less. 

The sun was lower, but it still threw its light over the river, which 
wound along below, passing the gardens of our house; while the 
high - road leading to the little town skirted the summit of a rise 
commanding a very fine view, of which our old-fashioned Grange 
formed the foreground. I turned off the road and lay down be- 
hind some furze-bushes, whose height sheltered me from the dust. 
Perhaps I fell asleep, or sunk into a dreamy reverie, I don’t know 
which; but I was roused by the sound of voices on the road behind 
me, one of which was strange, the other I knew for that of the vil- 
lage clerk, a man who had seen better days and was superior to his 
present position, but withal the most inveterate gossip in the parish. 

I turned gently, and resting on my arm, remained so, able to hear 
and see too through the bushes. The old clerk, Mr., or more gener- 
ally Dick, Ferguson, was standing with his back towards me, lean- 
ing on his huge silver-topped stick, his left hand resting on his hip, 
his left foot flung a little before the other, and his lengthening shadow 
falling quaintly across the road till it reached the stretch of common 
on the other side. The other speaker was evidently a stranger, and 
was mounted on a noble chestnut horse, which he sat with the grace- 
ful ease and command of a finished horseman. As far as I could judge, 
he might have been somewhere about four-and-twenty: his figure 
was very fine, tall, slight, and lithe; and the hand that held the reins 
was not white, because he was a dark man, but beautifully made, 
small, nervous, chiselled as by a sculptor’s chisel— the hand of a man 


THE STRANGE RIDER. 


5 


of birth. Of his face I could see little, for he wore one of those 
graceful broad-brimmed felt hats, drawn low on his brow and set 
slightly on one side, so that it completely shadowed him, but I could 
see that he had a slight, silky, dark mustache. Over his left shoul- 
der, too, was thrown a long somewhat heavy cloak, which did not 
seem to me of English make; and indeed there were two things 
about him which especially struck me. His voice was soft and very 
musical, pleasant to hear, but there was something in his accent, in 
the figure of speech, in his tout ensemble , that was not English, 
though if he were foreign, I was quite uncertain what nation to as- 
sign to him. Secondly, he gave me the impression of a man ready 
to assume, if not already under, some disguise. 

What were the first words I heard from him, then? — a simple 
enough question, most natural to a stranger — “Friend, what do you 
call that small town along the road there?” 

“It is called Stone Heath, sir,” returned the little clerk, glancing 
curiously up at the tall rider; “ it’s a very ancient place.” 

“ It looks old. I have just come through it. A very quaint place. 
How far is it to London?” 

“A long way, sir, but the rail goes from here, if you are going 
there.” 

“A thousand thanks. I saw it. You have a fine view from 
here,” sweeping his hand out towards the river. “I suppose that 
large gable-ended house down on the banks is the manor-house?” 
and he pointed to our house. 

I listened more closely, sure that the little clerk would go off full 
tilt into our family history. 

“Lord no, sir!” said Dick Ferguson, with an indignation I thor- 
oughly understood. “The manor-house is on the other side; the 
Dormers are the lords of the manor, a very old family. That , sir, 
is Stone Heath Grange.” 

“Ah! then the old family have not got it, I take it?” 

He was keen, then, this stranger; he had gathered that from 
Dick’s tone which dealt a backhanded blow at the Grange. 

“You are right, sir,” he said, regretfully. “A woman, sir, did all 
the mischief ; the women always do. ” 

The stranger laughed a rich, soft, amused laugh, that I thought I 
should know again. 

“ Why, how was that, friend? The women, I salute them,” and 
he raised his hand, as if to lift his hat, but dropped it again, ‘ ‘ but 
they are certainly at the bottom of most mischief. ” 

“ Well, sir, one was there. The real old family, you see, sir, was 
called St. Leger, but it must needs go and end in a daughter—” 

“ ‘ Dombey and Son’ was a daughter, after all?” put in the rider. 

“Exactly, sir, a daughter, an heiress, Miss Catherine St. Leger, 
and she must needs go and marry a foreigner, a refugee, handsome, 
certainly, and a gentleman of old family. He was a German, and 
they called him Dr. Von Wolfgang, though why ‘doctor’ I don’t 
know. They left only one child, sir, a boy, the father of the present 
owner, and a precious wild scamp was St. Leger Yon Wolfgang.” 


6 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


“ Then he took the old name?” 

“ Yes, sir, oh yes, he had to; it was in the last Mr. St. Leger’s will.” 

“And who did this wild scamp marry?” asked the stranger. 

I felt for a moment inclined to jump up and ask him what the 
devil he meant by asking questions, but I saw that he was only 
drawing Dick on. 

“Marry, sir? why, a beauty and a baronet’s widow. Do you 
know the name of Falconbridge?” 

“I cannot say I do.” 

“Well, no matter; only the present baronet is her son, only child 
by her first marriage. I don’t know exactly who she was, but I 
have heard that her mother was a creole lady. Anyway, Mrs. Yon 
Wolfgang— ” 

“ She dropped her title, then?” 

“Oh yes, sir. Well, her name is not English, nor yet French; 
they tell me it’s a French creole name— Georgine. She has one son, 
the present owner, who is his brother’s ward.” 

“Is he under age, then?” 

“Yes, sir; only sixteen, a handsome lad, like his grandfather the 
doctor.” 

“And what is his name?” 

“An outlandish one enough, sir — Casper.” 

“Casper Yon Wolfgang.” He repeated my name slowly, as if 
weighing it letter by letter. “A thorough German name; pretty, 
too, and unusual. Which name do you mostly give them about 
here?” 

“Well, sir, of course their own class give them their full style, 
but the rest popularly, as one may say (specially those who remem- 
ber the old family), generally call ’em simply Wolfgang. The St. 
Legers were liked, you see, sir.” 

“And these Wolfgangs are not, eh?” 

“I don’t mean, sir, that they are personally disliked. Certainly 
Mr. Casper isn’t, for he’s handsome and kind-spoken.” (“Thank 
you, Dick,” muttered I.) “ But his mother is haughty, very haughty ; 
got a temper, too.” 

The stranger laughed. 

“ Is that why they are not favorites?” 

“No, sir, no; but, you see, the St. Legers were county gentry, 
and lived here, spent their money here, subscribed to the county 
hounds, took interest in everything; now, these Wolfgangs don’t, 
and never did. They are London people, care naught about Stone 
Heath, and are seldom here, except for a little while in the autumn 
or spring. It isn’t possible we should like them so well; and, be- 
sides, there is something queer about them — they have never once 
been seen in church. For the lad I don’t wonder, but Mrs. Yon 
Wolfgang — ” 

“Is she a Roman Catholic, or maybe a Dissenter?” 

“Neither, sir; she never enters church or chapel of any kind, and 
won’t even visit the rector. I call it shocking, quite unorthodox.” 

“Quite shocking!” said the stranger, gravely, but my ear detected 


THE STRANGE RIDER. 


1 


a vein of irony in his soft voice. ‘ ‘ The rector should reclaim this 
wandering sheep. ” 

Dick was puzzled, I know. He could not make out this strange 
rider at all, still he chattered on from where he had stopped. 

“And the more’s the pity, sir, that only this very day she’s got 
come to her a little niece or relation to live with her, I fancy. Poor 
child ! such a beauty, too. ” 

“ A beauty, eh? Do you know her age and name?” asked the tall 
rider, laughingly. 

“ She seemed to me about seven or eight, sir, and her name — let’s 
see, I heard it, a rather odd one — Miss— yes — Miss Nina Lennox — ” 

“Is she Scottish, then?” 

“I believe not, sir; only by descent, perhaps, but—” 

I did not wait for more. I was seized with a desire to see nearer, 
perhaps speak to the stranger ; and crawling along behind the bush- 
es, I rose up at a little distance and came lounging along the high- 
road, or rather the foot-path by the side of it, stepping as softly as I 
could. But the strange rider had a keen ear, and lightly as I trod 
the turf, he heard me, for he turned his head sharply, and immedi- 
ately lifting his right hand, drew his broad hat lower, and flung his 
heavy cloak in unconsciously graceful folds across him. As he did 
so the sun flashed on a gleaming gem on his finger, and threw off so 
dazzling a ray that for the moment it blinded me. 

Dick Ferguson saluted me. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Casper; glad to see you. Maybe you can 
tell this gentleman the distance to London?” 

(“Well done, Dick,” thought I; “I’ll step as far as the church 
porch to please your orthodoxy.”) 

I turned, and looked up. My light cap left my face bare enough, 
and under the shelter of his Calabrian hat the strange rider was 
studying it, printing off every line, every shade, on his own mind ; 
not rudely or obtrusively, but quietly, in the most natural way, as 
only waiting for my answer. I know not why, but I felt uneasy, 
fretted, determined to say something about it, though I answered 
him first. 

“ It Isn’t over twenty miles; an easy ride I call it, and pretty too.” 

As I spoke a restless movement of his spirited horse drew my 
glance to the firm hand that instantly checked it. I had not been 
mistaken. It was a delicately beautiful hand, perfectly made, and 
how nervous, how firm and strong; better to grasp in friendship 
than feel its grip in enmity ; if I could have foreseen then ! 

“A thousand thanks,” he said, with courtly grace. “ I shall take 
it in preference to the rail. You have a quaint old town back 
there, and this lovely view. I have been looking at it.” 

“And at me too,” I broke in, with a boy’s brusquerie that must 
have betrayed my annoyance. “ You’ll know me again.” 

‘ ‘ Which is more than you will me, mon ami, ” said the stranger, 
with a soft laugh, that struck my ear with a curious dare-devil 
ring. 

“Sha’n’t I? No, not perhaps your face and figure in another 


8 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


dress or after years, but I think I shall know this anywhere,” and I 
touched his bridle hand — the right was under his cloak. 

He laughed again, amusedly, incredulously. 

“Not you, giovanaccio mio , it’s not your trade; you would never 
be able to swear to my hand.” 

“ I shall !” I answered, impetuously. “ I shall know it, and your 
voice and accent.” 

“Not one of the three, unless I choose it; but I shall know you. 
Good-day, friend, ” bowing to Dick. “ Au revoir, M. Casper St. 
Leger Von Wolfgang — adieu.” 

“Allez au didble /” I called angrily after him as he rode away, and 
he heard, for he turned in his saddle to kiss the chiselled hand I 
declared I should know, and his laugh came back to me on the 
wind. The next minute the strange rider disappeared over the 
brow of the hill. 

I heard that laugh in my ears long afterwards. I hear it now. 


MANUSCRIPT III. 

NINA LENNOX. 

I did not wait, or give Dick any time for any remarks on the 
stranger, for I turned directly, jumped over the bushes and bounded 
away home, in a very irritated state of mind. How that man’s 
words and tone rankled : 

“Not you , giomnaccio mio, it’s not your trade; you would never 
be able to swear to my hand.” 

And why not, I wonder? it was a very marked hand. Not my 
trade! Was it his, then? Who, what was he? a cosmopolitan, a citi- 
zen of the world? Whatever his nationality, English, French, and 
Italian seemed to have come with equal facility to his tongue; but 
beyond that conjecture fell, baffled. I had crossed the path of an 
enigma. 

In a moody humor I went into the house and made my way tow- 
ards the drawing-room. As I entered the corridor I heard my 
mother’s voice through the open drawing-room door and then a 
child’s voice, exquisitely sweet and flexible, said, 

“This picture is like you, Aunt Georgine. Is it your son?” 

“Yes; look at it, Nina.” 

I advanced on tiptoe to the door, and for the second time that 
day looked and listened unseen. Before my own recently finished 
portrait stood my mother and a child. 

Looking back, I recall that picture as vividly as I saw it then, 
the spacious room forming a background of white and crimson; 
the wide lofty windows admitting a broad sweep of light, glowing 
with the rich coloring of the red autumn sunset, while the last 
bright rays of the sun fell full on the half creole-looking woman 
and the golden -haired child. 


NINA LENNOX. 


9 


Georgine Yon Wolfgang (it would weary the ear to always or often 
call her ‘ ‘ my mother ”) was, in truth, somewhere about forty ; but she 
looked, as women of her type often will, fully ten years younger. 
No lines yet on the smooth face, no gray visible among the thick 
brown hair, dark almost to blackness. She was handsome, and 
knew it. I have heard her called a superb woman, and it was 
exactly the word. Not that she was queenly, or much over the 
medium height, but she had a well-set head and fine form, and she 
carried them well, and she had very fine eyes and clear rich complex- 
ion, inherited from her French creole mother. Haughty, passion- 
ate, impetuous she certainly was, capable of tornado-like storms of 
passion, and unforgiving implacable hatreds, with a leaven of hard- 
ness in her that showed in her face there was little there of that 
which makes softness and faith. She was worldly, a sceptic, loved 
pleasure and ease, she loved herself, she loved me much, and my 
half-brother Walter a little. I do not think she cared for much else. 
That was my mother. 

“A superb woman, that Mrs. St. Leger Yon Wolfgang,” said the 
world. 

Her hand rested on the child’s shoulder, half hidden by the masses 
of golden hair which fell over it in heavy waves rather than actual 
curls. 

How shall I describe Nina Lennox? the slight, fragile form, which 
nothing could have robbed of its supple grace ; the small noble 
head, so perfectly formed, so faultlessly balanced, that the eye only 
marked the perfect whole ; the intellectual imaginative brow, and 
large, thoughtful, dark eyes, like the deep fathomless sea; the finely 
cut and delicately classic features, and rich glittering hair, made her 
a picture indeed of living beauty; a beautiful child, and, one day, to 
be a most beautiful woman. 

My mother spoke again. 

“Yes, that is my son, your cousin Casper. What do you think 
of him?” 

“ Is this portrait like him?” 

“Yery, my dear; exact.” 

“Then he is handsome, and he is very like you, too — just like 
you, only — Aunt, how old is Casper?” 

“ Sixteen.” 

“And you?” 

Georgine laughed. 

“Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a lady her age?” 

“Yes, I know— old ladies, but — ” 

“ How old am I, then?” 

“You, aunt? oh, not old at all. You don’t look older than my 
French bonne, who is thirty.” 

“ Thanks, pretty one, for the compliment. I am eleven years old- 
er than that.” 

“ Then you are forty-one. Is Casper your only child?” 

“No; I have another, who is married.” 

“ What is his name?” 


10 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Walter Falconbridge— Sir Walter Falconbridge.” 

“Why isn’t liis name Wolfgang?” 

. “Because he is my son by my first husband, my dear, and his 
name was Falconbridge.” 

“Oh; is he my cousin too?” 

“Walter? certainly.” 

“ Then I should like to see him. What is his wife’s name?” 

“Theodora.” 

“Is it? that is mine too. Mrs. Bury said it was a Greek name, 
and she told me what it means.” 

“ What does it mean?” asked my mother, caressingly. 

Nina looked up, a quiet reverence on her brow, and in the music 
of her sweet soft voice, said, 

“God’s Gift.” 

The caressing hand dropped suddenly, and Georgine drew back 
as if an asp had stung her. Then she broke into a derisive laugh. 

“Oh, indeed! child, don’t talk such nonsense to me. God? 
Bah!” 

I saw that child shiver, and her large dark eyes open wide in 
startled wonder ; but she said nothing, only moved away to the 
window, while Georgine threw herself on a sofa. 

In a little while the child turned, with a half weary, half impatient 
sigh. 

“Aunt Georgine, the sun has set. I wish your son Casper would 
come in; I want to see him.” 

How pretty my name sounded on her lips. I withdrew a few 
steps, and then walked into the room. 

‘ ‘ Ah, mother, so you have got your little niece in my absence, ” 
said I, advancing to the bow-window. “ Miss Nina Lennox, I hope 
we shall be good friends,” and bowing low, I held out my hand. 

She lifted her observant blue eyes, and gave me a long, steadfast 
look that I could hardly bear, it was so keen and searching, and suf- 
fered me to take her little soft hand and kiss her. Mark ! suffered 
me. She did not give the hand or offer the kiss, but she said, 
“ Then you are my cousin, Casper Yon Wolfgang. I am glad you 
have come in. ” 

“Thank you, pretty one. I suppose you wanted a game of 
romps?” 

“ No, I wanted to see what you were like.” 

She delighted, amused, charmed me inexpressibly. I smiled, then 
laughed out. 

“You quaint, original child; well, what do you think of me?” 
said I, sitting down and drawing her to me. 

She did not answer at once, but moved her hand from button to 
button of my coat, up, up to — yes, to my dainty, elegantly fastened 
tie, over which I spent full fifteen minutes every morning; and I 
suffered it!— ye gods, I actually let those tiny, delicate fingers touch 
it, softly feeling the fine silk texture. 

“Well, Nina, are we to be friends or enemies?” 

Again that keen look, very wistful this time. 


NINA LENNOX. 


11 


“I don’t know; friends, I suppose. I think I shall like you, 
only—” 

Only what? I would have given worlds to fathom that child’s 
mind, to reach her arriere pensee , but it was vague to herself, impos- 
sible to get from her in words, and I dropped it. 

“Oh, Nina, look, you wicked monkey; my dainty tie!” 

For the delicate restless fingers had fairly untied it. 

For a moment she looked scared, and then broke into a rich glee- 
ful laugh, full of innocent mischief. 

“ Oh, I have spoiled it! let me tie it again. I’ll do it beautifully.” 

“ Right away, then!” said I, making merry anger over it. “You 
are as mischievous as a colt, or my pointer puppy.” 

“Have you got a horse and puppies?” said Nina, swiftly and 
deftly tying it again. 

“Oh yes, round by the stable-yard; puppies as big as a young 
donkey.” 

“Puppies are never so big,” said she, shaking her golden hair at 
me. “There, I’ve done this beautifully; see, aunt. Casper, look in 
that pier-glass — ” 

“ Really, Nina, you are a fairy. I am enchanted. It is superb; 
actually as well as I do it.” 

“Better, you mean. But, now,” said she, coolly, and putting her 
hand in mine with a child’s fascinating assurance, “take me to see 
your horse and puppies. ” 

“Why, child, ’’said my mother, “you and Cas must be hungry. 
Tea is coming.” 

(We had dined early, for Georgine to go and fetch Nina from Lon- 
don.) 

“No, we’re not, aunt; I want to go out first, or it will be too dark. 
Come, Casper.” 

“Casper,” laughed my mother, “you must strike your colors to 
this spoiled little empress.” 

“ I have done so already, mother. ‘A wilfu’ woman,’ you know.” 

Nina stopped on the threshold. 

“ Do you know what Mrs. Bury says is that proverb? — ‘ A wilfu’ 
woman maunhae her way, but a wilfu’ mon’s the very de’il. ’ ” 

“ I sing small,” said I, jumping through the window on to the ter- 
race, and she followed me, laughing joyously. 

We soon gained the gate to the stable-yard and kennels. I paused. 

“ Now, Nina, ain’t you afraid? there is a large fierce mastiff to be- 
gin with^” 

| “He won’t hurt me; dogs never do. He’d let me put my arm 
round his neck if I coax him. Open it,” pushing impatiently at 
the door. 

“ Tiger is loose, I tell you.” 

“I don’t care, I’ll call him. Tiger! Tiger!” 

I had never known Tiger do anything but bark at a strange voice; 
but now, instead, there was a questioning, uneasy whine inside the 
door. 

“ Come, then; take my hand.” 


12 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“No; I’m not afraid I’ll go in before you.” 

“You daren’t, little boaster.” 

She flushed. 

“ But I dare. Open that door.” 

I did it, fully expecting her to retreat in terror to me from the 
huge mastiff within; but I never was more mistaken. Stepping bold- 
ly before me, she passed in first. Tiger came up directly, growling 
ominously, and pawing and smelling found her in a way that might 
have alarmed a grown man. 

Not so this pure little child. 

“You great beauty! you noble, dear old Tiger. Good boy, nice 
old fellow.” 

There she was in a minute on her knees before him, stroking his 
nose, his ears, his great paws; the next moment she had his huge 
head on her shoulder, and her arms round his neck. 

“ Casper, look! see what friends we are — Tiger and I.” 

So they were. Tiger only drew his head away to lick her hands, 
her arms, her very face, letting her play him a hundred tricks, tying 
his ears, taking up his paw, even pull his tail, to my utter surprise ; 
and when we moved on, he kept at her side, looking up in her face, 
and fussing round her for notice, as he had never done to any one 
before. 

She was delighted, stopped to hug him, and gave him her hand, 
which he carried gently in his mouth as he walked at her side. Many 
a rough romp has she had with Tiger, many the time he has rolled 
her over, making believe to bite; but huge and rough as he was, he 
never so much as bruised her, never even scratched her, or left the 
marks of his teeth on her flesh. She used to wander out alone, but 
if we knew that Tiger was with her, we were never anxious ; and 
though she petted and liked the other dogs, great rough Tiger was 
her first love and her last. 

“ I shall call you Una,” said I, laughing. 

“Why? who was Una?” 

“Una is the heroine of a poem which I will give you some day. 
She was the faerie queene, and tamed a lion.” 

“And I have tamed a tiger,” said the child, laughing merrily. 
“ Una is a pretty name. Where are your puppies?” 

“ Here is one.” I whistled, and from an inner yard— the kennel- 
yard — came bouncing up my favorite, Don, a handsome young point- 
er of a year old, brown from head to foot, not a white spot on him. 
Always over-friendly with strangers, he jumped boisterously on Nina; 
and being large and strong, the violent onslaught made her stagger. 
I almost expected a cry, but instead she fairly hugged the dog with 
a burst of delight. 

“ Oh, you dear dog! He likes me, too. Don, down, sir; you bite 
too hard.” For Don had got her arm in his mouth playfully and 
left marks on it, and she administered a slap to his brown face, at 
which he pranced. I laughed, and led the way to where there was 
a litter of real puppies, which the groom, who had the charge of 
them, had just fed. 


NINA LENNOX. 


13 


In a minute Nina was seated on the ground, and had them all in 
her lap running over her, alternately playing with and teasing them, 
seven in all — three water-spaniels, two pointers, and two curly, per- 
fectly black retrievers. 

‘ ‘ All pups together, sir,” said the groom, highly amused. ‘ ‘ W ouldn’t 
missy like one o’ them little ’uns?” 

“1 don’t like little dogs,” said she, putting the retrievers on Tiger’s 
back and a spaniel on his head, and then she broke into peals of 
laughter at their futile endeavors to get down. 

“ Oh, do look! how funny they look! And isn’t old Tiger good?” 

“Lord, miss,” said Baylis, when he could speak for laughing, “ it’s 
all along of you. I never thought to see Tiger letting them pups be 
put on him ; but dogs is so fond o’ children, and, bless her pretty 
face, sir,’tain’t no wonder as he takes to her. Missy, wouldn’t you 
like to see the hosses?” 

“ Oh yes, please; are there many?” 

The puppies were put down, and she was on her feet again. 

Back again to the stable-yard, and Baylis showed her the horses. 

“ What big gray horses, Casper,” she said. 

“ Those are for the carriage, ‘ fayre Una!’ ” 

“You will call me Una, then. * And those pretty white ponies?” 

“They are for the phaeton.” 

“And those two brown horses?” 

“Mine and mother’s, for riding.” 

“ But there is an empty stall.” 

“I think, Nina, that we must fill it with a little riding-horse for 
‘fayre Una.’ ” 

She looked up, her blue eyes dancing, her cheek flushing. 

“Will you, will you really, Casper? and let me ride with you.” 

“Yes, really; and to-morrow I’ll show you the boat-house, and 
take you on the river. Come in now; see, it is dark, and mother is 
waiting for us.” 

Dear little winsome thing! when she came to bid me “ good-night ” 
she laid her soft face against mine, and whispered a little tremulous- 
ly, “ I was naughty to you when I came ; I do like you, I do like you 
very much.” 

Oh, Nina, Nina ! Theodora, God’s gift, indeed! If I had only 
known — There, hush, hush! what am I writing? 

When she was gone, I asked my mother about Nina’s history, for 
till then I had really hardly known, and cared still less, for her ex- 
istence, nor had my mother, and she could only give me an outline. 

Georgine’s only brother, Theodore Lennox, had gone to Calcutta 
when very young, and there married a lady, who died in giving birth 
to Nina. At three years old she was sent to England, but not being 
very good friends with Georgine since her ‘second marriage, Colonel 
Lennox sent her to a Mrs. Bury, who took Indian children. He died 
himself two years after, suddenly, leaving no will, and only two 
thousand pounds which were in the English funds in Mrs. Bury’s 
name, for the use of the child. Mrs. Bury seemed to have been a 
faithful guardian, but lately her health had failed her, and she was 


14 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


going to Madeira, of course giving up her pupils. So she wrote to 
Mrs. Yon Wolfgang, as Nina’s nearest relative and only legal guard- 
ian, and my mother at once adopted the child. 

So this is how our house became the home of Nina Theodora Len- 
nox. 


MANUSCRIPT IV. 

A BOAT-RACE. 

If I linger over this period, I may surely be pardoned. I was 
young then, and happy— and innocent then as I never was in after- 
years. 

I had not been used to care for children— generally speaking, lads 
of sixteen do not, though I have known many exceptions— but this 
child charmed, fascinated me. Her pretty ways, her vivid imagina- 
tion, her intellect — I am not misapplying the word — more than all, 
something deep and fathomless about her drew me irresistibly to 
her, and made me her slave. I am sure any other child would have 
been hopelessly spoiled, for even my mother felt something of her 
charm, but she was not harmed. 

The moment breakfast was over next morning she came round to 
me, coaxing in a way that nothing male could resist. 

“ Won’t you take me to the river now — in the boat?” 

Georgine looked up deprecatingly. 

“ My dear Casper, she’ll be afraid; take Elise.” 

Elise was her French bonne , who had been with her from her birth, 
having been Mrs. Lennox’s maid, and my mother had wisely retained 
her in her service. 

“ Oh, Aunt Georgine, we don’t want Elise; I’m going for my hat, 
Casper, so get yours.” 

“Mother, she is as imperious as you,” laughed I, as she vanished. 

Georgine bent her dark arched brows. 

“ Very pretty as a child, but take care, Casper, how you encourage 
that will of hers : two cannot play that game in one house. ” 

“ How you go ahead, mother. She—” 

“Hush!” 

Nina came bounding in, followed by the bonne, with something 
over her arm. 

“Madame, l’enfant est mechante; she will not take this mantle — 
Ma’amselle.” She held it out, half laughing herself. “M. Casper, 
please make her.” But mademoiselle danced round me, laughing 
wickedly. 

“Non, non!” she cried in French. “I will not take it, I tell you. 
M. Casper, follow me.” And with a bound she vanished through 
the window. I followed directly, in time to see her vanishing in 
the direction of the stables ; and w T hen I caught her there she was, 
with the finest of the spaniel pups on her shoulder, biting her golden 
curls. 


A BOAT-RACE. 


15 


“I am going to take him, Casper. Come along, and keep your 
nose down, sir.” 

This last was to the puppy, which she held in her arms. 

I could not deny her, and so led the way to the boat-house, of 
which I had a key. I got out the small boat, built to hold one rower 
and one or two sitters. Nina watched me, in her grave, observant 
way, while I placed the stretcher, put in boat-hook and sculls, greased 
the rowlocks, and finally shipped the rudder, and laid the tiller-ropes, 
covered with blue silk, ready. But when I offered to lift her in she 
laughed, swerved aside, and jumped in. 

“ There, puppy, you sit at my feet,” said she, sitting down and 
taking up the ropes. “I’m going to steer.” 

“You? Fayre Una doesn’t know how.” 

“Yes, she does, M. Casper. Mrs. Bury’s brother taught me. He 
used to take me often on the Serpentine. ” 

“Those tiny hands haven’t the strength,” said I, incredulously, 
as I shipped my sculls and pulled out into the stream. “Holloa! 
what the deuce is the boat about!” 

My exclamation was elicited by her head suddenly slewing sharp- 
ly to port, and I was answered by a peal of laughter. 

“Now are my hands strong enough?” said Nina, with such intense 
mischievous glee that in my laughter I nearly caught a crab. 

“Oh, Nina, you’ll kill me! I yield, I cave in!” 

“You had better; there, now, we are all right again. Puppy was 
horrified at you—” 

“ Keep your lookout, Captain Lennox, and don’t chatter.” 

“Iam doing both.” And certainly the large observant eyes were 
keeping a very bright lookout ahead, and there was no question 
about the other. “ Casper, how old is puppy?” 

“Nearly four months, I think.” 

“Then it is time he was named. What shall we call him?’’ 

“Call him? Let’s see; Lovel. Have you read Mrs. Markham’s 
‘ England ’— 

“ ‘ The cat, the rat, and Lovel the dog, 

Rule all England under the hog?’^’ 

“Yes, I remember; but Lovel is ugly.” 

“Neptune — he was the ocean-god.” 

“Neptune is common.” 

“ Captain, you are ‘ uncertain, coy, and hard to please.’ ” 

She laughed at my new sobriquet, by which, en passant , I often 
called her. “What will suit you— Jasper?” 

“No, that will rhyme with Casper. I shall call him Colin, and 
his master’s surname will do for him.” 

“Or his mistress’s. I think you must have him, captain. Colin 
Lennox sounds well.” 

“Have him — for my own?” 

“Yes, blue-eyes, for your own; only Baylis must keep him in the 
stable-yard till he is six or seven months old. ” 

“You are very kind, Casper.” 


16 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


She sat silent for some time, steering really capitally. At last she 
said, 

“ We are going down-stream, are we not, Casper?” 

“Yes, London way.” 

“ I want to go faster; give way. More still; lay out well.” 

“ Mind your helm there, captain;” but I threw a glance ahead my- 
self now and then, but in a little while she stopped me, 

“Lay on your oars, Casper; do you see astern?” 

“ Yes, a lovely view, Una; what else?” 

“There is a boat coming on, with one man in it; let’s wait till he 
is close, and then race.” 

I looked. We were hugging the left bank, the stranger the right; 
and I watched him admiringly as he came easily on, but pulling the 
true, long, steady “ Oxford ” stroke, that sent the boat on as if it were 
a toy. It was beautiful. 

The river lay wide between us ; but as he drew nearly opposite, I 
thought that I had seen that broad Calabrian hat before. I felt al- 
most sure; yet, “No,” I muttered, “ surely no foreigner ever pulled 
that long, strong, English stroke.” My doubts were soon ended, for 
as he became our vis-a-vis that wicked Nina stood right up and 
shouted, 

“ Boat ahoy! we’re going to race you!” 

The stranger lay on his oars directly, and turned his head. How 
I wished that hat was in the river. The next moment he waved 
something white in his hand, and called across— not loud, but every 
word came distinctly, 

“Ah, bonjour, petite! M. Yon Wolfgang, je suis tres charme de 
vous revoir.” 

I was right ; it was him, then — the strange rider. 

“Does he know you, Cas?” 

“Only my name, ’’said I, indignantly. “I will race him now,” 
and I shouted back, “I’m sorry I can’t return the compliment. I’ll 
outrace you, and chance the ducks — neck or nothing.” 

He leaned forward over his sculls, laughing, I am sure; then he 
answered, in his soft voice and deliberate English, never clipping 
words, as we do, 

“ It would not be fair play. I am a bearded man, and you are a 
lad.” 

A lad, indeed ! I would beat him now, a tall, slight whipper-snap- 
per! A foreigner have the impudence to tell me, an Englishman (?), 
that it wasn’t fair to race me on my own element. In my ire I for- 
got the way I had just seen him handle his boat. I had the advan- 
tage, too, for my boat was a small, light, sharp-built skiff, and my sit- 
ter was a feather-weight, while his, though a beauty certainly, and 
sharp at the head, was broad rather in the beam, and much larger 
than mine, carrying two sitters and two rowers — a pair-oar. 

“ Lad or not,” I called, “ I’m your match, and better, for my skiff 
is a feather.” 

“Very well! I will take your sitter, give you half a mile, and 
beat you in twenty minutes. ” 


A BOAT-RACE. 


17 


“ The devil you will, though! I won’t trust you with my sitter,” 
said I, settling'myself in my seat, and shipping my sculls. “ Come, 
get yourself ready.” 

“Do you see that weeping willow a quarter of a mile ahead?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“ Bien! I will wager you ten to one that I give you that start, 
and pass you in twenty minutes. After that I will race fair — if you 
demand it. Start when I throw up my handkerchief. ” 

“Done!” I laughed scornfully. “Now, Nina, drop the ropes, 
and sit still,” I added, pulling easily down towards the willow. 

“ I know; look at him.” 

I saw him kiss his hand to her, and then, cool as a* cucumber, 
“light up,” and lie down in his boat, resting his head on his hand, 
watching me, I knew. I waved my cap defiantly, and was answered 
only by a huge puff of blue smoke which hung lazily about him on 
the still atmosphere. 

In a short while I reached the willow, and there, pausing ready, 
looked back after my antagonist. He stood up, flung aloft his ker- 
chief, and then very leisurely seated himself and took his sculls, but 
he did not start till full a minute after me. 

Then the race began, Nina holding my watch to mark the time. 
I was young, strong, and skilful, and knew better than to give out 
my strength too much at first; so did he, or else he was playing with 
me; but I confess that after a little wfliile I felt a qualm of oppress- 
ive doubt cross me when I saw his long steady sweep ; still, as yet, he 
was not gaining on me. 

“ Time, Nina?” 

“Five— no, seven minutes have passed.” 

“We shall beat. Look how far he is.” 

And warm now to my work, I put forth my full strength and 
gave way with a will. The skiff flew, but in a few minutes Nina’s 
pointing finger made me glance at my rival. Ye gods! how he was 
bending to his oars ! what power and vigor there was in every long 
stroke ! I could not disguise it from myself — he was gaining. 

“Time again?” 

“Ten minutes.” 

I pulled, and watched in silence. Those terrible strokes ! he was 
coming up hand over hand now; every moment the distance was 
lessened, and that without any visibly extra exertion on his part. 
There was a man on the bank, and as I shot past he shouted, 

“If you was a pulling for dear life, younker, t’other ’un would 
beat ye into next July.” 

“You be hanged!” returned I, with a lad’s irate rudeness. 

“Fifteen minutes,” timed Nina; but in two minutes she pointed 
to the right bank, with ludicrously grim despair, saying breathless- 
ly, “ Pull now, Casper!” 

I glanced across the river, and pulled as if indeed for very life ; but 
I might have spared my exertions. He passed us by, shot on, and 
crossed our bows two hundred yards ahead, laying on his oars a mo- 
ment to salute courteously — insolently, I secretly stigmatized it. 

2 


18 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ I salute you, M. Casper. It wants two minutes yet to the twenty. 
Do you demand an even race?” 

“You add insult to injury, ’’answered I, with a laugh, that made 
a bad attempt to conceal my vexation. 

“ I only offer you revenge; but if you decline, qu’importe & moi! 
I will take my leave. Au revoir, monsieur ! belle petite, adieu.” 

He kissed his hand again to Nina, and pulled rapidly away down 
the river. I turned homeward. 

“Never mind, Nina; we did our best, and anyway had a good 
race.” 

‘ ‘ Didn’t we ? Look, Cas, he’s gone. ” 

I saw the speck vanish round a bend, and it was gone. 

So for the second time in my life I lost sight of the stranger. 


MANUSCRIPT V. 

ALLINGTON LODGE. 

With the close of the autumn we turned our backs on Stone Heath, 
and went to our town - house for the winter, though, as usual, we 
spent Christmas-time with my brother Walter at Falconbridge Hall; 
and I remember how he and his young wife were more and more 
charmed by Nina Lennox. 

I would pass over those days of youth if I could, for it pains me 
inexpressibly to recall them ; but there is one whose path I crossed, 
whom it were better I had died before I saw, and of whom I must 
speak. 

My brother Walter Falconbridge was, I have said, my guardian, 
though he was only seven or eight years my senior; and this Christ- 
mas it was arranged that at Easter I should go for a year or so pre- 
vious to going to college, to a certain Dr. John Fantony, who kept a 
very select sort of collegiate academy. He took no lad under fourteen, 
and so famous was he for the excellence of his teaching, that it was 
well known that most of his pupils took good, some very high, de- 
grees at college. 

So I was to go there, and Nina was to have masters at home ; but 
I consoled her for the loss of her playmate, by assuring her that I 
could see her often, as Dr. Fantony’s house was within easy reach, 
being at a village called Allington, about five or six miles west of 
London. Indeed, we arranged that sometimes on a half -holiday she 
was to ride down with Baylis and go for a ride with me ; for I was 
to have my horse kept at the village, as one or two of the pupils were 
allowed to do. This compromise in some measure consoled Fay re 
Una; and when Easter came and the day of departure arrived, she 
was verjr good and quiet, though after I was gone Theodora took her 
to spend the day with her own two children, infants of one and two 
years old, of whom Nina was very fond. 


ALLINGTON LODGE. 


19 


It was a Wednesday afternoon, I well remember, and the most 
lovely weather that any one could desire. 

Allington Lodge— for so was Dr. Fantony’s spacious dwelling call- 
ed — was a large old-fashioned house of Elizabethan structure, situ- 
ated within good grounds, the gates of which opened on a road skirt- 
ing the wide open common in which Allington rejoiced, and which 
was evidently used as a play and cricket ground ; for as the brougham 
passed along I saw a number of lads, mostly in white, playing a 
cricket-match. How well I remember speculating whether any of 
them were my future companions, and if so, which party — inside or 
outside? In the midst of my speculations, the carriage entered the 
grounds and stopped before the house. I was an old hand at schools, 
and with perfect sang-froid I followed the footman to a study, not 
even awed by finding myself in the presence of the master himself. 

I think Dr. John Fantony was one of the handsomest men I have 
ever seen, and one of the most good. Old no one could have rightly 
called him, though he numbered fully fifty-seven or eight years, and 
his hair, still thick and curly, was perfectly gray. He was a tall, im- 
posing, dignified-looking man, but with something inexpressibly soft 
and gracious in his manner and bearing. And what a noble counte- 
nance he had! what a fine head, and forehead! at once benevolent, 
intellectual, and firm, the large comprehensive powers of a grand nat- 
ure. No wonder such a man turned out pupils who left their mark 
in the world; no wonder that those pupils idolized him while with 
him, and were proud to count him their friend when they started in 
life. Many of his younger lads were the sons of men who had them- 
selves been his pupils years before. 

Most kindly and courteously he received me, but how keenly those 
bright, full, blue eyes watched me— reading me, I am sure, much 
more closely than I then suspected. 

Having ascertained that I had dined, and conversed a little, he rose 
and said, smiling, “There, I am keeping you talking while you are 
doubtless anxious to see your companions. Come, I will introduce 
you to those who are within reach, for you see, being half -holiday, 
they are all scattered. The greatest number are on the common, 
engaged in, or looking on at, a match between our first eleven and 
another school; some have gone over to the river, and the rest are 
out on a long walk. Shall we go to the cricketers? Of course you 
are a votary of that noble English game?” 

“Oh yes, sir; but pray don’t trouble yourself to come out on my 
account.” 

“No, lad, it is partly for you, partly for them. Why,” said he, 
with a pleasant, genial smile as he took up his hat, “ if I didn’t go out 
to see them a bit, when the lads came in it would be, ‘ Dr. John, you 
never came out at all; oh, Dr. John, we had such a game, only you 
weren’t there. ’ So we’ll go to them, lest they complain that the old 
man did not show his face.” 

He spoke and evidently felt towards “his lads ” as a father. I per- 
fectly understood their affection. 

We went out to the common, but before we reached the scorers’ 


20 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


bench, near which most were gathered, one or two perceived him, for 
I heard a delighted exclamation: 

“Here he is! here’s Dr. John!” 

And “ Dr. John ” walked up and introduced me to the boys, many 
of them almost young men, who gathered about him. 

“Lads,” was his characteristic introduction, “ I have brought you 
your new companion, Casper Yon Wolfgang; make the best of each 
other that you can.” 

Which we did. I was absorbed at once into a number of boys, 
and overwhelmed with questions, which I answered truly or not, as 
best suited me. 

“ Hold hard,” said I at last, “ it is my turn now.” 

“ Is it though, Mr. Wolf?” laughed a round-faced boy of fourteen; 
“you haven’t yet told us if you’re a cricketer.” 

“ Of course I am — beat you all.” 

“ Indeed,” said another, “ you’d be clever to beat some of our first 
eleven. Now, just watch the play a bit.” 

“ Which is in?” said I. 

“Reid’s boys, second innings; we’re licking them, though some 
of their fellows are older than most of ours ; but you see, our field- 
ing is better, and we’ve got one or two very crack round-hand bowl- 
ers that they can’t match. D’ye twig the bowler to the right? that 
tall dark chap in the blood - crimson cap and belt, and white tog- 
gery?” 

“Yes; looks about sixteen.” 

“Ay, but he ain’t that by a year. Well, he can bowl, I tell you.” 

“ So I see — swift, straight, and scientifically. What style he has! 
What is he? who is he?” 

I was answered in chorus, 

“He’s a brick.” 

“A stunner.” 

“A regular slap-up cove, and no mistake.” 

“ I’m as wise as I was before,” said I, when I could put in my oapr; 
“ who is your Bonnet-rouge?” 

There was a laugh at this sobriquet, and then one answered, 

“His name is Stewart Claverhouse, and the best chap you can 
imagine.” 

“Deuced rich too,” added a youth of seventeen; “his governor’s 
dead, croaked long ago ; and no loss either, for I fancy he was a hor- 
rid old stick. The doctor is Claver’s guardian and grand-uncle.” 

“He don’t look old enough for that,” remarked I. 

“ He’s sixty, and Stewart only fifteen. By George! there’s a sky- 
er! Long-off will catch it! no— yes; well caught, Dunlop!” 

There was a shout of applause as “long-off ” caught the ball, and 
the man out came in ; but he had done his duty, and was cheered by 
his own side. As he passed us, he said laughingly, 

“ I wish your captain would take off that crimson-capped bowler 
and put on another; you really work him too hard.” 

“Pray, young man,” inquired one of “ours” politely, “do you 
perceive the verdant in my optical organ?” 


ALDINGTON LODGE. 


21 


“In yours, sir, personally, yes— in your captain’s, no,” answered 
the other, laughing. 

“I say, isn’t that Tom Rawcroft going in?” asked one, 

“Yes, why?” 

“You won’t get many runs off his bat.” 

“ Why not, Mister Verdant Orb?” 

“He can’t stand against either Claverhouse’s bowling or Sey- 
mour’s, and your other chap in with him is a rash runner.” 

The other shrugged his shoulders and turned away, while I, at 
least, turned my attention to the game ; and a very pretty sight is a 
cricket-field on a fine day. But of all there I found myself almost 
unconsciously watching most attentively that tall dark lad, of whom 
they all had made so much. I was impatient for the last wicket to 
go down that I might see him near. 

It came at last, and in his over too. The ball left his hand, and 
the next moment the last man’s middle stump was ripped out of the 
ground and sent flying some yards behind the wicket, amid an ir- 
resistible cheer. Then the whole field came trooping up to rest be- 
fore we went in for our second innings. I was presented to ten of 
the fielders, but the eleventh was not so curious, the one I wanted 
most of all, “Bonnet-rouge.” I saw him standing by the scorers’ 
tent, the ball still in his hand. One of the players, Seymour, saw 
my glance, and sung out, 

“ Claverhouse, come here a bit.” 

He came up directly. 

Mr. Verdant Orb, who seemed the school - jester, and was really 
named Tom Dacre, played master of ceremonies. 

“Gentlemen, permit me; Mr, St. Leger Von Wolfgang, direct de- 
scendant of Baron Munchausen himself— Mr. Stewart Graham Clav- 
erhouse, the first bowler in all the United Kingdom, beats all crea- 
tion.” 

“Punch, don’t be a fool,” said Bonnet-rouge, shaking hands with 
me. “ I saw you long ago. Are you a cricketer?” 

“He has dubbed you Bonnet-rouge,” said Punch, before I could 
answer, “but I guess your house never turned out a republican.” 

Young Claverhouse shook his head and then addressed one of the 
others. 

Well, I had my wish. Was he as striking near as far?— yes, if for 
nothing but his beauty ; and how the white loose dress and red belt 
became his tall, slight, supple figure, of which every attitude and 
movement was so graceful; how the crimson cap set off the silky 
raven-black hair that curled in thick masses over his noble, aristo- 
cratic head— an artist’s head and face of the high caste which makes 
a Michael Angelo. What a nobly handsome man he would be — and 
he had no mother! What was it about him that had struck me? 
not an expression, strangely quiet and melancholy even when he 
smiled, that lay deep in the large dark eyes, and instantly made one 
think of the portrait of Charles I. — no, not that, not his artist-face, 
but his voice and intonation, and — his hand. That small, beautiful- 
ly chiselled hand and slender supple wrist; that low musical voice 


22 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE, 


and graceful intonation. Surely I had heard one of which his 
seemed the still softer echo, and the hand too, smaller of course, even 
yet more perfect in its chiselling, but still like the one I had declared 
I should know again. Yes, there could be no mistake ; Stewart 
Claverhouse in these two things did remind me of the strange rider, 
the man of whom I hated to think; and in that moment, like a secret 
subtle poison, there came stealing into my soul a dislike to this boy, 
the instinctive dislike one feels to something antagonistic and for- 
eign, which the evil feels towards the good and noble, with which it 
has no rapport. 

Had my spirit some darkened insight into the future? Oh that 
I had died then! Oh that I had died then at his feet. 




MANUSCRIPT VI. 

STEWART CLAVERHOUSE. 

Do what I would, that boy’s face and voice haunted me, and 
forced me, as if by some fascination, to look and listen. Do you 
know those rare voices that, alike in singing or speaking, you hear 
through any noise as you hear the softest note of music? His was 
such a one; and when he spoke I caught myself listening, and often 
trying sotto voce to repeat what he had said, with his accent and inflec- 
tion of voice, but in vain. And even in class, my glance would wan- 
der to his face, trying to read it, to fathom the power he had of at 
once drawing and repelling me. Blind fool that I was! a simple 
secret, if I could have read it then — but I had eyes and saw not, and 
ears yet heard not, as it is written in that Book which I dare neither 
believe nor disbelieve. I remember only the morning after my arrival 
I found him lying on the grass, reading a small volume, and I asked 
him, 

“ What is that book you seem so interested in?” 

“ It is Bacon’s Essays.” 

“What a dry concern to read,” said I. 

“Not to me. Have you ever tried it?” 

“ Yes, and gave it up. What part are you reading?” 

‘ ‘ At this moment my eyes are on a very true passage— see. ” 

“ No, read it to me. I like to hear you.” 

It was a compliment which, in most lads, would have called the 
ready blood to the face; it would in me, but not him; no crimson 
tinged the clear colorless darkness of his cheek. He simply read 
what I asked. 

“ ‘ The Scripture saith, The fool hath said in his heart, There is no 
God; it is not said, The fool hath thought in his heart; so as he rath- 
er saith it by rote to himself, as that he would have, than that he can 
thoroughly believe it or be persuaded of it.’ ” 

I dared not look in that face and utter the sneering denial that 


STEWART CLAVERIIOUSE. 


23 


was almost on my lips: it was well for me that he did not lift his 
eyes; he added, 

“The Atheist does not live who could, I think, thoroughly con- 
vince me that in his secret soul he is an unbeliever in a Deity and 
a future, and I have met several scoffers, sceptics, freethinkers, 
abroad.” 

“Abroad,” repeated I, eager to escape a subject I feared to discuss 
with him. “ Have you been abroad, then?” 

“Yes, more than in England, since I was old enough to remem- 
ber.” 

“ Were you born here?” 

“ In England? yes, in London; but I was sent abroad when I was 
a child of eight or nine.” 

“ With your father?” ventured I. 

“ No, to school; various schools.” 

“ How do you mean? an odd education?” 

“ My father had perhaps rather strange notions about education, 
but I don’t know that they were bad.” 

“How laconic you are, Claverhouse. Then you have been at 
heaps of schools, and under heaps of masters?” 

“A good many more than most boys, perhaps. I have been in 
Paris—” 

“At a school?” 

“Yes; and then at the Jesuit College at St. Omer.” 

“ Then you are a Roman Catholic?” 

Stewart smiled. 

“No, and am never likely to be. I am a Churchman — Anglo- 
Catholic — what you would call the ‘High-Church party.’ ” 

“Were you at St. Omer long?” said I, fearing the least touch of a 
religious subject. 

“No.” 

“Where did you go next?” 

“ Well,” said Stewart, smiling, “ if I am taciturn, you are curious.” 

“You are the strangest boy of fifteen that ever I met,” said I; 
“ but you haven’t answered. Have you been in Germany?” 

“ Yes, a little; from St. Omer I went into Italy.” 

“That is vague; what city or cities?” 

“ I was first sent to Florence, after that to Rome, and then Milan. ” 

“Were you long at each?” 

“Yes, tolerably.” 

“Your father died long ago, one of them told me.” 

“ It was a mistake; he died when I was just fourteen, rather over 
a year ago. ” 

“Were you in England?” 

“Yes; I had just come over as usual to spend my vacation at 
home.” 

“And then—” 

“ I was placed here.” 

“You are rich, are you not? If you had been poor, what profes- 
sion would you have chosen?” 


24 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Why do you ask?” 

“Because I think I can name the one Nature meant you for—” 

“What is that?” 

“An artist of some kind — painter, sculptor, musician — I don’t 
know which. ” 

He lifted his great fathomless eyes for the first time, and asked a 
question: 

“And what would you have been?” 

“Me! oh something where the work was light and the returns 
quick. Ha, ha! not the answer you expected, eh?” 

He looked at me for a minute steadily, and then answered, qui- 
etly, 

“Yes it is; you hate poverty; you shuddered just now at the 
mere idea, and it almost follows that you dislike steady, hard work.” 

“ Do you mean that a man who hates one must hate the other?” 

“ I think that generally when you find a man hates and dreads 
poverty, the struggle of life, it is because he is at heart idle or un- 
stable, and hates to work .” 

“It is easy for you to talk,” said I, “who need and will never do 
a stroke of work, mental or physical. ” 

“ Nay,” he answered, gently, “ you do me an injustice. I do not 
talk without acting. I could not live an idle life. ” 

“That is, being rich, you will read when you like, travel when 
you like — in fine, be busy only when you choose. Do you call that 
work? because I don’t.” 

“ Nor do I. I call^work choosing some trade, profession, or call- 
ing, and following it up.” 

‘ ‘ Which a man of fortune never does. ” 

“Eh! what, then, do you call our M.P.’s and politicians? You 
cannot assert that they work only when they like.” 

“No, not they, certainly. But that is not like a trade or profes- 
sion by which a man lives, and which no man ever takes to except 
to live.” 

“ Wolfgang, most men who choose their calling for themselves 
choose for something else besides mere existence.” 

“ Much you know about it at fifteen,” said I. 

Again he gave me one of those keen looks which I was beginning 
to dread, and answered, quietly, 

“ I have not lived even fifteen years with my eyes shut.” 

I could have sworn' that. Those great observant eyes of his let 
nothing escape him. 

“ Well,” said I, aloud, “ you talk so against idleness, what are you 
going to do?” 

“ Leave this school at midsummer.” 

“ Leave! so soon? Oh, for a public-school, you mean?” 

“ No, I am going back to Florence.” 

“To school or college?” 

“ Neither.” 

“ Laconic again. Where, then?” 

“ Into a sculptor’s studio.” 


STEWART CLAVERHOUSE. 


25 


“I hit the mark, then,” I exclaimed; “when I saw you on the 
common, I said to myself, ‘ That chap is a horn artist!’ When did 
you first get the fancy?” 

Stewart paused before he answered, and then it was with an evi- 
dent effort over his reserve. 

* ‘ I can hardly remember the time when I had not the intention. ” 

“ Strange! It will be laborious.” 

“I know that: it is laborious to toil up a lofty mountain, but 
when you have gained the highest — ” 

“ Claverhouse, you are ambitious, very ambitious.” 

A curious smile quivered for a moment about his delicate lips, 
but he only said, 

“And you are not — at present?” 

“ Not I! I certainly don’t care to take up any profession for the 
love of either work, art, or fame. You don’t understand that, eh?” 

He half laughed, and rose, shaking back his coal-black hair. 

“ Not quite; but, then, you are — ” He stopped. 

“Are what? finish.” 

“ It is nothing.” 

“Yes, it is. What were you going to say?” 

“It was an involuntary thought, and might offend you, which I 
should be sorry to do.” 

“"No, it won’t,” said I, impetuously. “Finish your speech; you 
are what?” 

“As you will, then,” said he, shrugging his shoulders. “I was 
going to say that you are young, and have plenty of time to change 
or develop qualities now dormant; few lads of our ages know what 
they possess or wish.” 

“You seem to know deuced well,” said I, feeling much more 
forcibly than I liked that in every way I was before my superior. 

“I know what I like, and, to a certain extent, what I am, and 
what I can do,” he answered, quietly. 

“ Do you know, then, that you are very reserved and proud?” 

“ I believe I am.” 

“Are you fond of studj r ?” 

“Yes, I always was.” 

“I wasn’t till two years ago, then I saw its value. Your educa- 
tion has been desultory?” 

“No, you are mistaken; it has been unbroken.” 

“ Of course, brought up so,” said I. “You are a linguist?” 

“ Nay, I cannot lay claim to that title yet; of course, French and 
Italian I can speak, and I know German — but that is all. ” 

“You are a classic; I heard Dr. John tell one — ” 

“Never mind what he says, he is over-partial,” he interrupted 
quickly, and walked away. 

“Proud, ambitious, and sensitive,” muttered I, looking after him, 
“ and very gifted; beyond my comprehension, too; but for all that 
you fascinate me against my will. Stewart Claverhouse, there will 
never be much love lost between us two. ” 

No love, certainly; on my part, at any rate, for each day made me 


26 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


feel more and more how completely he passed me by ; but his feel- 
ings I could not read; he was so courteous to all, so utterly unselfish, 
so almost impossible to rouse to anger, where only he himself was 
concerned, that he baffled me. He joined in, nay, was often the 
ringleader in all our boys’ manly games ; but though a general favor- 
ite and friendly with nearly all, he had no chum ; some, of course, 
he liked better than others, but he had no friend, no mate: there was 
something which none of them could pass. His slowness to take 
offence, and openly expressed dislike to a quarrel or fight, blinded 
me into misjudging him, until Seymour, a sharp fellow older than 
me, opened my eyes. It was a full fortnight after my arrival that 
I said, with a laugh, 

“There seems no offending Bonnet-rouge. I don’t think he cares 
to fight.” 

Seymour gave me such a look. 

“I’ll tell you what, Wolf, don’t you try it on too far, unless you 
want a thrashing.” 

“He!” said I, scornfully, “he couldn’t lick me; for though he’s 
taller, he’s a regular whipper-snapper, so slight; look at his hands.” 

“ Don’t care; for all his slightness, he’s your match, and more too; 
he is all muscle and spring. Claverhouse is hard to rouse ; but when 
he is, he is an ugly customer. ” 

“All my eye! if he’s plucky, why does he shirk a fight?” 

“ ‘ If !’ He’s as plucky as the devil, only he doesn’t gas-blow. Here 
is a Spanish proverb, ‘ Beware of the silent man, and the dog that 
does not bark.’ Stewart hates a row, partly because he thinks it 
ungentlemanly; but though he takes things so easy for himself, let 
him see injustice from the strong to the weak, and he is roused di- 
rectly, and then, I tell you, against anything of his match he is a 
formidable foe. ” 

“Come, come, Seymour; Clavers isn’t over-strong.” 

“The deuce he isn’t! no, not of the heavy-weight sort ; you, for 
instance, could lift and carry a weight under which he would break 
down.” 

“ Ay, and in a stand-up fight I should floor him.” 

“ Not you; for one, he would not let you get a knock-down blow 
at him, he’s so lithe and active and skilful. His strength is that of 
the Arab horse, endurance, that is, principally ; but look at his make 
and muscle, he is too well and evenly made not to be strong physi- 
cally. I’d back him against you any day, to stand fatigue, at walk- 
ing, riding, rowing, or anything else.” 

“You would lose, then,” said I, with a curling lip; “ and as to the 
fighting — ” 

“Well now, look here, Wolfgang! you know Norton?” 

Norton was a big, strong fellow of seventeen, one of the few that 
Stewart did not affect. 

“Yes, what of him?” 

“Norton, you will soon find out, is inclined to bully. About a 
month after Claverhouse came here, he, Norton I mean, was badger- 
ing a little chap of twelve in the playground, knocking him about 


A FEARFUL BETE NOIRE. 


27 


shamefully. Stewart turned directly and went up to him, very quiet 
in his manner, but still waters are deep. ‘ Let little Netherby alone,’ 
he says. ‘ Mind your own business, and be damned, you foreign 
whelp,’ says Norton — politely, you may believe. ‘If you don’t let 
him alone, I’ll make you.’ ‘You! lath, you daren’t touch me; I’d 
pound you. Stop till I’ve settled Netherby, and I’ll polish you off, 
youngster, for meddling.’ 

“ Stewart said no more, but acted. In a second he had little Neth- 
erby behind him, flung off his jacket, and with a quick ‘ Defend 
yourself, ’ let fly a blow that took Norton scientifically between the 
eyes, and made him reel, seeing more stars, I’ll bet, than ever were 
created. Then there was a battle worth seeing. If Norton could 
have got a few heavy blows, or closed with him, he would have borne 
the lad down by sheer weight and brute strength, but Stewart’s skill, 
serpent-like agility, and strength, too, were more than his match. 
There was a sharp contest, and at last suddenly Norton went down 
like a log, and lay there beaten. Claverhouse just glanced at him, 
and walked off without a word, never a taunt or a sneer, but he’s 
never liked Norton since then, not because of the fight, but the in- 
justice he did. Look 3 r ou, Stewart is one of those that may for- 
give, but never forgets. I shall be sorry when he is gone, for he’s 
a brick.” 

“He’s a cure,” said I, not at all inclined to join in his praises; 
“come in, there is the dinner-bell.” 

And yet ten minutes after, when I found myself his ms-d-ms at 
dinner, I could not keep my eyes from glancing at him, nor my ears 
from listening to his voice. 


MANUSCRIPT VII. 

A FEARFUL BETE NOIRE. 

“O! beware, my lord, of jealousy ; 

It is the green-ey’d monster, which doth mock 
The meat it feeds on.” 

So with bitter truth wrote Shakespeare three hundred years ago. 
True then, true now, true as long as the world exists and man lives. 
Is it a feeling or a passion, or one and both — this subtle poison that 
corrupts the very spring of life, and maddens brain and heart? this 
foul seed that, in corrupting, rots the soil in which it is sown? this 
hell - sent serpent that, coiled among the flowers, makes a wilder- 
ness of the fairest garden, and blasts every breath of air, every mo- 
ment of time, with a deadly poison? this dark, guileful thing that 
creeps and winds and crawls through the world, leaving only mis- 
ery to mark its trail ? Is this the arch-fiend of which men speak ? 
this the devil that tempts men on to sin and crime? 

Was it this that stood ever between me and he who would have 


28 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


been my better angel? It had no place in him — his soul was too 
grand, his faith too sublime for anything so base, least of all for this 
most torturing, most base of passions. 

Had Stewart Claverhouse any virtue in being what he was? Had 
he made himself? Was it his doing or Nature’s that evil seemed to 
pass him by almost scathless? Had he given himself that large in- 
tellect, that versatile genius and strong will and energy, or the high- 
wrought pride and lofty ambition that in him were virtues ? 

He passed me by, was my superior in everything, ay, in all that 
had hitherto been my cherished superiorities. In study I was not 
his equal by a long way; at anything that demanded mere weight or 
personal strength I was the superior, but at anything requiring skill 
and agility he was master absolutely, not by any exertion, but because 
he could not help it. 

I had always been held a very good rider, boater, swimmer, etc., 
but here I found myself second at once. Where or how he had 
learned I know not, but he could swim as I had never done ; and 
with an oar in his hand he was at home, a boat was as a toy in his 
hand ; and certainly no Arab of the desert ever rode his fiery steed 
with more grace and perfect mastery than did this boy. He had 
the most magnificent black mare, an Arabian, that I ever saw ; and 
though few but he, if any, cared to ride her, she would come to his 
voice and follow him like a dog. When he was mounted on Ayesha 
he always looked to me like an embodiment of my favorite German 
legends, with his dark beauty, raven hair, and the coal-black steed. 
There was another thing about him, too, which at times has made 
me start and shiver in vague nervousness — his ubiquity. He cer- 
tainly had the nearest approach to that fabled power, if it is fabled, 
that I ever saw. I have never, save in him, seen such extreme light- 
ness and almost serpent -like suppleness of form, or such a swift 
and perfectly noiseless foot-fall. He would come upon you sudden- 
ly when you had just seen him where it seemed hardly possible he 
could reach you so soon. Many a time when I have been in a dark 
room he has come in. I have neither seen nor heard him, but I have 
felt his presence. Still more marked was it when the case was re- 
versed. Often I have gone to the library or music-room to fetch a 
book in the dark (for I knew where to look), when, to all appear- 
ance, sight, or hearing, it was empty, when any one else might have 
been there and escaped my detection, but he, no ! I could feel his 
presence directly. I always spoke — “ Claverhouse, you are here?” — 
to dispel the weird feeling of nervousness it gave me. I cannot de- 
scribe the thrill that always quivered through me when I heard his 
soft, gentle voice answer out of the gloom, 

“ Yes, I am here.” 

Generally I hurried away, glad to be beyond that strange influ- 
ence, but one night I paused and asked, ‘ ‘ And what are you doing 
here, alone in this dark music-room?” 

“Cannot you see where I am?” 

“No; but your voice comes from the piano.” 

“You have answered yourself.” 


A FEARFUL BETE NOIRE. 


29 


“How? Do you mean that you have been at the piano? You 
can’t see the music. ” 

“ I have not been using any music,” he answered. 

“ No ! Can you improvise, then, like your favorite, Mendelssohn ?” 

Stewart laughed a little, half amused. 

“No; I was only amusing myself. I know so many things by ' 
heart, you know.” 

“ Will you let me hear you, Stewart? You know how fond I am 
of music.” 

“ I know, and therefore I don’t think I should give you pleasure.” 

“Let me judge of that. I will tell you when to stop; and they 
won’t miss us in the drawing-room. Come, be good-natured.” 

“As you will.” 

The next moment his light fingers touched the keys, bringing 
forth most beautiful, and to me most wonderful, modulations, with 
a soft, mournful melody running through every change. There was 
a strange, wild weirdness about it that was almost unearthly, and for 
me had a peculiar fascination. I stood listening, entranced, how 
long I know not, for I took no note of time, no heed of anything, 
save the music and the slight, dark form dimly discernible through 
the gloom. I think, too, that he had forgotten he was not alone, for 
presently he shut the piano abruptly and came towards me. 

“ Claverhouse, why did you stop and break my dream?” 

“I remembered that you were here at last, and stopped lest I 
should weary you.” 

“I have not heard half enough; but, Stewart, is your music al- 
ways so melancholy?” 

“You give it a grand name. I don’t know; if it is, I can’t help 
it. Shall we go up to the drawing-room now?” 

He left the room and I followed him ; and after that I often made 
him play for me, sometimes his own inventions, but more often his 
or my favorites among the great composers. Can you understand 
these contradictions in me? I admired, I wondered at his genius, 
but while it drew me to him, at the very moment that I was availing 
myself of it jealous hatred of that very genius, which lifted him so 
far above the rest, above me , was slowly but surely filling my heart 
and soul. There must have been some terrible leaven of evil in me 
— I, a lad of sixteen, and yet possessed of so dark and unyouthful a 
passion as jealousy, and that while I could not resist the fascination. 

“In his eye 

There is a fastening attraction which 

Fixes my fluttering gaze on his ; 

He awes me, yet draws me near.” 

So it was. I was charmed, yet hating; I sought, yet shunned. What 
did he think of me? I would have given much to be able to an- 
swer the question, and could not, save that I felt he read me much 
more than I cared to acknowledge to myself ; beyond that I was in 
the dark. He certainly did not avoid me, but as certainly he did not 
seek me; he did for me anything I asked, if he could, with exactly 


30 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


the same kindness and courtesy that he showed to every one, and no 
more; he suffered me to seek him out, and thus practically I was so 
often with him in the play -ground, in walking or riding, that soon 
we were held to be chums— not for long, though: he soon upset that 
belief as far as he was concerned. I overheard him and Seymour 
one evening, in the shrubbery. 

“ So, Stewart, you have at last made a chum.” 

“I!” The tone was very surprised. “What do you mean? Who 
thinks I have made a chum?” 

“ All the chaps. Why, you and Wolfgang are always together- 
regular mates.” 

I heard Stewart’s soft, musical laugh. 

“ Is that all? He is no more a mate of mine than you, or Dacre, 
or any other; it is he who seeks, not I.” 

“Then you don’t like him?” 

I held my breath for the answer. I should have known him bet- 
ter: if he had hated me, it would not have been Stewart Claverhouse 
to let the word pass his lips. 

“How like you, Seymour, running ahead. If he were an unpleas- 
ant companion I should shake him off. ” 

“Jesuit!” muttered I, passionately. He might have liked or dis- 
liked me— the answer would have done equally well for either. One 
may find a man a most delightful companion, and yet utterly dislike 
Mm — his character. I was as much in the dark as before. 

Seymour went on : 

“ You are a strange boy, Stewart; have you ever had a mate?” 

There was a moment’s pause, and when Claverhouse answered, I 
knew, by the peculiar, quiet depth of his tone, that some deep, sor- 
rowful memory was stirred. 

“I had one long ago, when I was in Rome. He was an Italian, 
much older than I, and I loved that man as I have never loved hu- 
man being since.” 

“ When you have been in Florence a short while, you are going 
back to Rome, are you not?” 

“Yes, with my maestro.” 

“ Then you will see your friend?” 

“ I shall not even see his grave; he was murdered by banditti.” 

“ Oh, Stewart, forgive me! I understand your solitariness, now.” 

Through the gloom I saw Stewart lay his hand on his arm, but 
that was answer enough, and the two moved away in silence. 

A little more, and I have done with my boyhood and his. 

One Saturday half -holiday Nina Lennox, attended by the groom, 
rode down to Allington Lodge to have a ride. My chestnut and 
Claverhouse’s magnificent black mare were waiting ready for us 
when she came up ; indeed, we were standing on the steps chatting, 
and Nina gave a little cry of delight, as I ran down to meet her. 

“You are just in time, Fairy! Dear Nina, how glad I am to see 
your sweet face again; and, look, here is my companion, whom I 
wrote to you about— Stewart Claverhouse,” 1 added, as he came 
down the steps also to her side. 


A FEARFUL BETE NOIRE. 


31 


How that child gazed in his face, his very eyes, for some seconds, 
and then, without a word, she jumped off her horse, stretched out 
both her hands to him, and lifted her innocent face for his kiss. A 
worshipper of beauty, passionately fond of children, he was, I saw, 
too deeply touched for words, but stooped over her in silence, as he 
clasped those tiny hands in his own, and kissed her eyes and lips. 
How I hated him in that moment, for I remembered with a fierce 
thrill of anger and pain how very different had been her reception 
of me. I had had to coax and win, and then only been suffered to 
take what she instantly gave this stranger. 

I stepped forward quickly. 

“ Come, we had better mount.” 

“ He shall lift me up, then,” said Nina, rejecting my hand. 

I turned to my horse, how savagely I best knew; but Stewart 
smiled, that beautiful winning smile of his, and lifted her to her sad- 
dle, then sprung to his own, and we cantered off ; though the black 
mare curveted, wild for a gallop, and for some minutes she gave 
Stewart work enough to hold her in. I wished she had thrown him. 
The moment her hoofs touched the turf of the common she gave a 
bound that would have unseated most riders. 

“I must give her head for a minute,” he said, quickly, and left us 
like a shot. 

The moment he spoke Nina started slightly. 

“Casper, his voice doesn’t sound quite strange; whose is it like? 
it reminds me of some other, and I can’t think what.” 

“Well, when I first heard it, it struck me directly as reminding 
me of the voice of that foreigner who raced us on the river. ” 

“That’s it! that’s it!” she said, delightedly. “Casper, isn’t Stew- 
art Claverhouse beautiful?” 

“Hush, child; here he is.” 

And as I spoke he came up, wheeled, and took up his former place 
at her side. 

How perfectly I remember that ride ! I never saw Claverhouse 
come out of himself so much as he did then for that child. Silent 
as he was by nature, she made him talk continually, and for her he 
did it with evident pleasure. She made him tell her of the foreign 
cities he had been in ; the manners, customs, and various people he 
had seen ; a perfect sketch, in fact, of his life abroad. 

“And,” she asked at last, “should you like to go back, and leave 
all your friends and relations?” 

“Yes, Nina; but I have no friends or relations, except Dr. Fan- 
tony, my grand-uncle. I am going back to Rome.” 

‘ ‘ Are you ? What f or ?” 

“I am going into a sculptor’s studio.” 

“To be a sculptor — a great, famous sculptor?” 

I laughed, but he answered, quietly : 

“ Yes, if I live, Nina.” 

“ Shall you make beautiful statues?” 

“I hope so — yes, I will.” 

She turned her bright face to him with a curious, wistful look. 


32 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“You will, too; keep one for me; oh, Stewart, keep one for me, 
please.” 

“I will keep the most beautiful of all for Nina Lennox.” 

“ And bring it yourself,” she added, “with your own hands?” 

“Yes, if it is possible, I will.” 

“You have promised.” 

“I have promised.” 

He had pledged his word only for a trifle, only to a child, and I 
tried to believe that he would forget it; but try as I would, I knew 
in my secret soul that one day, it might be long years hence, he would 
return to fulfil that simple promise — given for a trifle, given to a 
child. 


MANUSCRIPT VIII. 

THE PASSAGE OF TIME. 

Let me in a few words close that first page of my life. Would 
that it had been my last ! 

Midsummer came, and Stewart Claverhouse went away. I re- 
member that morning as if it were yesterday, to the very expression 
with which he looked up from a drawer he was turning out as I en- 
tered his room. 

“ So you are really going, Claverhouse? How strange and odd Al- 
lington Lodge will be without you.” 

He smiled slightly, a little sadly, I thought; but only shook his 
curling black hair. 

“We shall miss you terribly, Stewart.” 

“Thank you, Casper; not for long. I have been here too short 
a time to be missed much.” 

“ Stewart, is there nothing you regret to leave behind you in Eng- 
land?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Not one thing— not one human being?” 

“ Ah, si — the doctor; God bless his dear old gray head!” 

God ! why was it that, instead of the accustomed sneer, the tears 
came into my eyes? was it some tone in his gentle voice that touched 
an almost hidden chord of good in me, or was it the earnest rever- 
ence and love with which he spoke? 

“But you will not be very long away?” I said, presently. 

“Very long— probably many years.” 

“ Shall you never see Doctor John, then, for years?” 

“I shall come over sometimes to see him.” 

“ And you are really leaving no one but him whom you will care 
to see again?” 

“ I did not say that, Casper; there are some few whom I hope to 
see again — two or three.” 

“Any of the boys here?” 

“Ay, just that. Gus Seymour, and Tom Dacre — ” 


THE PASSAGE OF TIME. 


33 


“ Who else?” 

He suddenly raised his large dark eyes to mine. 

“And one Casper Von Wolfgang; we two shall meet again, but 
not for years — not till we are both bearded men.” 

“Stewart, give me that miniature of you; there it lies in the 
drawer.” 

He took it out, hesitated, and then said, abruptly, 

“Casper, you puzzle me; how can you care for this? You do not 
like me.” 

I felt my quick creole blood rush to my face. Was it true or not? 
Or had I, indeed, two natures — one filled with jealous hate and self- 
conceit, the other inexplicably drawn to him, fascinated, charmed, 
impelled to seek him, yet knowing that there was ever something 
between us that barred all friendship — something in me that made 
him shrink, and jarred every nerve of his sensitive nature— some- 
thing in him that made me fear him? I little guessed how closely 
he read me, boy as he was, and it was not until years after that I 
knew, from his own lips, what it was in me that stood between us. 

I answered, impulsively, 

“I do like you! Why else have I sought you out as I have?” 

He shook his head slightly, evidently puzzled ; unable to solve 
part of the mystery, because he did not know his own powers of 
fascination. 

“ Well, here is the portrait,” he said, with a curious, wistful smile. 
“You are welcome to it.” 

He held it out, but I closed my fingers round both it and the hand 
that held it. 

“ Stewart, what made you say that we should meet again?” 

“I don’t know; a presentiment, something from the unseen world 
beyond this life.” 

1 shuddered. I felt my flesh creep. 

“ Strange, weird being that you are, have you the fabled gift of 
second-sight from your Highland descent? You are a dreamer, 
fond of fabled beliefs.” 

“Fabled, Casper! Oh, I forgot; you have no faith or God — 
pover’ infelice.” 

If I were to live a thousand years I shall never forget the deep 
sublime pity of his look and tone; it was such as a mourning angel 
might have given fallen man. I dropped his hand and turned 
away. My eyes were blinded with tears, and it was many minutes 
before I could speak, and then I dared only ask an indifferent ques- 
tion. 

“ Do you travel alone to Italy?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Stewart— Stewart,” called Dr. John’s melodious voice, “are you 
ready?” 

“Iam coming, Uncle Jack.” 

Once more he held out that slight, beautiful hand ; once more I 
wrung it hard in my own, and so we parted for many long years. 

How I missed him, everywhere and at all times— his face, his 

3 


34 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


voice, his laugh. We all felt that there was a blank not to he filled 
by any other. 

Let me pass on quickly. For two years I remained at Dr. Fan- 
tony’s, and then my brother Walter sent me to Cambridge. 

There money flew ; my mother never knew how wild I was — bet- 
ter to leave her in ignorance. No memory of her or her teaching 
ever arrested her son, but many a time, in the midst of the wildest 
revel, there would sometimes rise before me the memory of that 
beautiful artist -face, sculptured so perfectly by Nature’s master- 
hand, and those deep, strange eyes, that seemed ever to see some- 
thing beyond this earth, and the mocking laugh or scoffing jest 
would die on my lips. 

Yet, with all my wildness, I managed to work, and left college 
with a good degree ; but I would enter no profession, and passed my 
time, like many other young men who are handsome, wealthy, and 
pleasure-loving, sometimes abroad, sometimes — mostly, of course — 
in England, but at last I set off, in a sudden fancy, for America, 
and travelled about, even trying prairie life, and thus I passed three 
years, during which my mother and Nina were travelling in France, 
Italy, and Germany. ^ 

Thus passed— shall I say was frittered away? — my early manhood, 
and I stood, at eight-and-twenty, where and what? and where and 
what was that other, born, like me, to blood, wealth, and position? 

Since we parted, boys at school, twelve years had passed, and I 
still remained, only one of the many, a unit in the crowd, an idler 
among the busy thousands ; but his name, the great sculptor’s, was 
on all men’s lips. Fame had long ago laid her laurels on the brow 
of Stewart Claverhouse. 


MANUSCRIPT IX. 

AMONG THE RUINS OF THE COLOSSEUM. 

My birthday ! a recurrence marking the flight of time — eight-and- 
twenty almost wasted years, and I sat, an idle, purposeless man, 
among the ruins of the Colosseum, looking my farewell look on 
Rome, a bearded man, yet idle, purposeless, save in the pursuit of 
pleasure, envying others their hard-earned fame, yet without the 
courage or energy to boldly enter the lists and emulate them. So 
passing from the great, yet living, my thoughts went back to the 
past, and, as in a dream, reared again those stately ruins into the 
grand whole they had once formed, and peopled them again with 
the great who had lived and died more than a thousand years ago. 
Whence came the mind that had thus set its indelible mark in 
things so vast? What if, after all, the very heathen in their grace- 
ful errors had been nearer a great mysterious truth than I and the 
school I followed in our philosophy? No; away the thought so ab- 


AMONG THE RUINS OF THE COLOSSEUM. 


35 


surd and humbling! Had we lived a thousand years later, to be less 
wise and enlightened than they? 

I was suddenly roused to the present by a figure which stepped 
from behind a column and paused before me. 

“ Monsieur, do buy a cameo or a statuette— ah ! for the love of the 
Madonna, signor!” 

A soft plaintive voice, with a most delicate languid accent, that 
fell an my ear in strange harmony with all around. A fitting voice 
and face to rouse me from my dreams — not quite an Italian face, 
either, for all its exquisite classic chiselling, and silky, curling, raven 
hair, and the melancholy beauty of the large dark eyes, seemed to 
belong by right to the voice. Yet she was a child in years, not more 
than fourteen or fifteen, and with her beauty and the picturesque 
dress of a Roman peasant might have stepped out of some fair 
picture. 

“You mix French and Italian,” I said in French — for she had 
used both languages — “ and each like a native. Are you a Roman?” 

“Hon, monsieur; je suis Proven^ale.” 

“ Provence! the mother of beauty and romance,” said I, “ but yet 
you speak Italian so perfectly. ” 

“Ah, yes, signor. Provence is my mother, but Italy is my 
balia.” 

“ Have you been long in Italy?” I asked, very much interested in 
this patrician wanderer. 

“ More than six years, monsieur, mais void! this gran’ cameo, the 
signor will buy it for his bell’ inamorata;” and the girl held out a 
very handsome brooch, with a bright smile that showed the small 
white teeth glistening between the crimson lips. 

“What if I have no bell’ inamorata, pretty one?” said I, smiling. 

The child gazed wistfully in my face, then looked down and gen- 
tly shook her head. 

“The signor jests; some maiden surely listens for his step and 
watches for his smile.” 

“Per Bacco,” I answered, lightly, “you know more than I do 
myself. Do you of sweet Provence pretend to the mystic and myth- 
ical lore of — ” 

“Thessaly” was the word, but I arrested it. How should this 
Transtiverina understand the allusion? To my utter surprise, the 
cameo-seller quietly filled in the sentence. 

“ — Of Thessaly of old, the signor would say ; does he, then, think 
it all mythical? is all that is dreamy and mystic impossible?” 

I started, and said, 

“ Have you ever read what a French writer said, * Comme il n’y 
a rien d’impossible, croyons dans l’absurde?’ ” 

Again the child gave me that wistful, searching gaze, and again 
the bright, sunny Southern smile showed the little white teeth; 

“ Je l’ai lu, but monsieur cannot think with what was probably 
Written in irony. No man ” — with a slight stress on the noun — “be- 
lieves in the absurd, but, as there is nothing impossible, we may not 
scoff at anything simply because it is incomprehensible, " 


36 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Nothing impossible?” I repeated, interested in this strange, pa- 
trician-looking cameo-seller— “ nothing impossible, caralina?” 

“ Nothing with God, signor,” said the child, quickly; “we believe 
by faith what we cannot believe by understanding. ” 

I sat down on a large stone, and said, looking out towards the 
Eternal City, 

“That, you know, is asking a great deal of man’s intellect; the 
mind must see or comprehend to believe implicitly.” 

“The mind may, perhaps, monsieur, sometimes; but it is the soul 
that worships and believes by faith,” said the child, softly. 

“You set a great store by this faith,” I said, curious to see how 
she would answer; “what is it?” 

The Proven^ale looked surprised and paused, but answered, 

“ Monsieur knows the words of il gran’ San Paolo — ‘Faith is the 
substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. 
Through faith we understand that the worlds were framed by the 
word of God, so that things which are seen were not made of things 
which do appear.’ Monsieur, without faith no man can believe, and 
without belief there is no salvation. And faith is so easy. ” 

“ So easy;” to her it was, but not to me. What is man’s reason 
for if it is to be satisfied with what will satisfy a child’s? 

My face betrayed me, for she added, looking down, 

“It is very strange monsieur will not accept things of heaven on 
faith, and yet he believes many earthly things by nothing else. He 
doubts the Book of God, and accepts most books of man unhesitat- 
ingly.” 

“Nay, only a few,” said I, startled again despite myself; just as 
Stewart used sometimes to startle me. 

“You accept most history,” she answered, directly. “You be- 
lieve that Gian’ Galeazzo of Milan lived ; you do not doubt that the 
Templars existed, or that China forms part of the world.” 

“The cases are not alike. History leaves palpable traces, and 
existing lands are their own evidence, and in what you quote there 
is nothing hard of belief ; but in that book — ” 

“The Bible, signor. ** 

“ — The Bible, there is much — I am mild — that taxes belief.” 

“ Not if monsieur reads with the eyes of faith.” 

“ Say, rather, with the eyes of weak credulity,” said I, quickly. 

The child shook her head. 

“ Que la Yierge prie pour monsieur,” said the soft, thrilling voice. 
“ What does he find so hard to believe?” 

“ Na} r , I scarcely know how to define it in a few words. Many 
things that I cannot reconcile, many things that do not agree with 
each other.” 

“Ah, monsieur, mille pardons, but read it again under the 
Church’s teaching; there is not then one word that disagrees with 
another. ” 

“Indeed, fair theologian! Do you, then, understand the myste- 
ries that are mysterious still to the most learned and scientific men 
of Germany?” 


AMONG THE RUINS OF THE COLOSSEUM. 


37 


I saw the faintest shadow of a sarcastic smile cross the delicate 
lips of the cameo-seller at my last words, and yet there was sadness 
too in her voice as she said, 

“No; I do not understand one quarter of them, hut I believe ev- 
ery word as implicitly as I know that there is a God above those blue 
heavens. Mais pardon encore ! Monsieur says that the Bible puz- 
zles the most learned men of Germany. Has he never read or heard 
the words of Jesus — ‘ Thou hast hidden it from the wise and pru- 
dent, and revealed it unto babes ;’ and again, ‘ Except ye have faith 
as a little child, ye shall in nowise enter the kingdom of heaven?’ ” 

I rose abruptly, glancing above, then around. Behind, the stately 
ruins of the Colosseum reared themselves in a vast amphitheatre; 
before me lay the once mighty city that had ruled the world for so 
long — Rome, majestic even in decay, still holding the faint shadow 
of its ancient prestige, still the home of Art, and now once again 
risen from its gigantic fall to be the head and capital of a new na- 
tion, strong and great in its unity, of which men may say, in the 
words of Yirgilius, 

“Terra potens armis atque ubere glebae.” 

Then I turned and looked on the Madonna-like face of the child, and 
somehow I dared not sneer, dared not say boldly, “ I disbelieve in 
this God of yours, and therefore deny and refuse the very ground of 
your faith.” 

But again her keen gaze read me. 

“ Monsieur is a sceptic.” 

I drew a deep breath, and fenced the question. “Nay; by blood 
I am a son of the legendary Rhine ; how, then, can 1 do aught but 
worship at the shrine of the unknown?” 

“And reject the revealed,” said the girl. “The signor is, then, 
what is called a German sceptic — visionist for all man’s wild dreams, 
materialist to all the grand truths that God teaches by his book and 
his works.” 

This half-Italian Provengale was not to be deceived, and I said, 
without looking at her, ‘ ‘ But I do not exactly believe in this Deity 
of yours — this God.” 

Her ear and eye must have caught the accustomed sneer which I 
had thought to conceal, for she said, 

“Monsieur is more of the French than the German school — he is 
a scoffer.” 

I made no answer ; for the first time in my life, bearded man as I 
was, I felt something like shame. 

The Proven^ale stood looking out towards the ancient city, and at 
last said, half to herself, “I wish — but he is gone from Rome just 
now — I wish monsieur could see and hear the great Signor Maestro.” 

“You mean the sculptor, about whom the world is wild. Why 
do you wish it?” 

“Because surely monsieur must then see that none but a God 
could create such as he.” 

“ Perhaps, if you lent me your eyes,” said I, willing to give stab 


38 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


for stab, but her clear, brilliant eyes did not droop, nor her pale 
cheek color. My arrow missed, and I added quickly, to cover my 
defeat, 

“You know him, then?” 

How her mobile, expressive face brightened. 

“ Si, ah si, signor, I was one of his models. See,” she added, open- 
ing a compartment of her box, “here are photographs, and among 
them some of his statues for which I sat.” 

I took the one she offered — and understood her. She was no com- 
mon sculptor’s model. Exquisite indeed was the pictured group of 
statuary on which I gazed, but the girl was gracefully draped, save, 
indeed, the shoulders and arms. Modesty herself could have wished 
no more. 

“ You are a strange creature,” I said, looking at her in wondering 
admiration; “ it just occurs to me that — ” 

“Monsieur has deigned to converse with a Roman peasant, a seller 
of camei and statuettes.” 

“No, mon enfant, but that a Roman cameo-seller, in the guise of a 
peasant, should have such knowledge and thought. You are surely 
not peasant born.” 

I was sorry I had asked, for she turned aside a moment before she 
answered. 

“Monsieur is right. I am born of a race of gentlemen of Prov- 
ence, but my father was a Legitimist, and joined a futile conspiracy; 
it was discovered, and my father fled, leaving me a child of two or 
three years old. A lady took me with her to Italy, and educated 
me.” She paused again, then added, “Three years ago she went to 
the Madonna — ah, perdona — I mean, she died suddenly, and — me 
void.” 

“A cameo-seller,” said I; “a wanderer, with gentle birth and ed- 
ucation — pauvre petite.” 

“ E perche,” said the child, lifting her dark, wistful eyes to mine; 
“as well a cameo-seller as anything else, Signor il Tedesco.” 

* “ What is your name, pretty one?” 

“Anna-Marie de Laval, monsieur ; they used to call me Fleur-de- 
Marie.” 

“A graceful name,” I said, touching the beautiful head pityingly; 
“but, pardon, you are no devout Catholic?” 

“Monsieur, I am Catholic.” Then, with a sudden change in ev- 
ery delicate feature, she said, 

“And now see, here are statuettes, modelled after the works of il 
gran’ Maestro, and cameos of Rome and Florence; will monsieur 
have this brooch for the sake of his bell’ inamorata?” 

“I will have it, caralina, for your sweet eyes and pleading voice,” 
said I, exchanging the brooch for a sovereign; “and whenever I 
think of Rome I shall remember the cameo-seller of the Colosseum. 
Adieu, Fleur-de-Marie.” 

“I kiss the signor’s hand; may he live a thousand years!” She 
was turning away, but something of significance in her tone impelled 
me to say, 


THE CHURCH-YARD OF SAINTE AGATHE. 


39 


“Child, why that wish?’’ 

She looked back, and said, with an expression I could not quite 
understand — half irony, half pity, 

“Because for the signor after this life all is nothingness: he has 
no God.” 

She turned away towards the city, and in the growing shadows I 
lost the slight form, though not the memory of her face, or — her 
faith. Since the day I had parted from Stewart Claverhouse I had 
heard no such words ; and now — now it was too late. I was hard- 
ened. Believe? Tush, no! after all, I was no worse than most men. 
They profess beliefs which they do not believe in their hearts any 
more than I do — only I scoffed and avowed openly, and they wear a 
mask. 

I left Rome that evening en route for England, but somehow that 
child’s face haunted me. % 


CHAPTER I. 

THE CHURCH- Y ARD OF SAINTE AGATHE. 

Alone! a word often in our mouths with very little meaning at- 
tached to it. “Go alone for a walk,” alone all the morning, alone 
in a hundred other ways as passing; but alone in the world, that is 
a very different thing, grand in its solitude and misery. To stand 
among the crowd, all fighting and pushing their way, and know that 
of all these thousands not one has any concern with you; that there 
is not a living being who knows you, or cares whether you rise or 
fall, live or die; no one to look to or love; no one to touch you 
gently, or give you a kind word ; a friendless, homeless wanderer — 
alone , in every sense of that word. 

Yet such was Fleur-de-Marie, the Roman cameo-seller — the worse 
for her, poor child ! — with her great beauty and education, born and 
bred a lady till nearly three years back, and then suddenly hurled 
down to the very bottom; cast utterly alone on the world, at an age 
too young to earn her bread in any way suitable to her birth; gifted 
far above the average, and perhaps prematurely matured and devel- 
oped in mind by the stern necessity of her fate ; tall for her years, 
too, looking more like sixteen than fifteen, yet with something sad 
and touching about her in her face and eyes that would make a 
strong man involuntarily touch her tenderly, and call her “child,” 
as if in that word she had a claim on his masculine strength and 
protection, as she had, God help her. Alone! what made the soli- 
tary child feel her friendlessness so bitterly and heavily this bright 
summer’s day? Perhaps the very sunlight, so different to her own 
dark fate; perhaps (for our nature is made of contrasts) the very 
place she sat in — no longer classic Rome, from which she had wan- 
dered, but the burial-ground of a little church in legendary Heidel- 
berg. It was a mournful place, where, perhaps, many a martyr 


40 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


slept in peace; but the child had passed them by after a while, and 
strayed to a lonely corner, where, under an old cypress-tree, lay a 
tiny grave — the grave of a very little child — and there she sat down, 
weary and sick at heart, with her cameo-box at her feet, her face 
resting on her hand, and her dark eyes gazing out on the quaint old 
German town, of which they took in so little, for the mind was far 
away in fair Provence and sunny Italy, where her brightest years 
had been passed ; and the beautiful head sunk lower, and the black 
eyes filled, till she suddenly covered her face with a low, passionate 
cry: 

“ Oh, Madonna mia, take me ! Oh that I were dead ! oh that I 
were dead!” 

A light hand was laid gently on her shoulder, and a deep, soft 
voice said tenderly, in Italian, 

*“My child, you are too young for such a sorrowful wish.” 

The child started and looked up in the dark, foreign face stooping 
over her— a handsome, distinguished head and face, a man to be 
marked out among a multitude — tall, slight, supple in form, the fine 
head covered with curling black hair, the dark bronzed complexion 
clear and colorless, every feature most delicately chiselled, but with 
deep lines about the stern, reckless mouth and broad brow that told 
of trouble and care. The large deep eyes, of the darkest hazel 
color, were keenly observant of everything and everybody, reading 
others, but themselves impenetrable. He was evidently a citizen of 
the world, one of those men who have pretty well knocked about 
everywhere, and done and seen as much in his six-and-thirty years 
as the less reckless, unquiet spirits go through in a lifetime as long 
again ; not a man for whom life had gone easily or happily — far from 
it — and not a man, either, who did or could take all things easily, and 
turn aside the shafts of sorrow and care with a laugh. No; both 
had struck him deeply, and left their wounds. The history of his 
changeful life was no story of roses — in much, perhaps, his own do- 
ing; most men’s thorns are at least half their own planting, and he 
was probably no exception. 

“My child,” he repeated, touching her with a hand that for its 
beauty might have served a sculptor as a model, “ you are too young 
for such a sorrowful wish. ” 3' * 

The child started at his voice as one might at the echo of one we 
know, and looked earnestly and wistfully in the handsome face, and 
then came a simple plaintive answer, whose unconscious pathos 
touched him to the quick. 

“ Ah, signor, I am alone.” 

The stranger sat down on the grave. 

“What have you been thinking of this last half-hour, piccola?” 

Her startled look said so plainly, “I thought I was alone,” that 
he answered as if the words had been uttered: 

“I have been studying your face for a long time.” 

The cameo-seller shivered, and shrunk away as if he must have 
found something guilty there ; but he seemed to read and under- 
stand the sensitive spirit, and, stooping, he lifted a brooch. 


THE CHURCH- YARD OF SAINTE AGATHE. 


41 


“ You have wandered here from Rome, I see, but this cameo is 
from Florence, tho city of art.” 

The Provengale’s expressive face changed directly, and lighted 
up. 

“Bell’ Firenze! has the signor been there ? does he love art and 
beauty?” 

“As much as you do, fanciulla. I know all Italy; strange if I 
did not.” 

“The signor is Italiano?” said the child, a little doubtfully. 

He half laughed, but there was both pain and bitterness in his 
answer. 

“ Si, caralina, if you will; Italiano as well as any other. I am a 
cosmopolitan, a citizen of the world, belonging to any country which 
suits me ; and at present it suits me to bear a French name — Guy 
Count de Cavagnac, which could at convenience easily become Guido 
di Cavagno — savez vous?” 

“ Oui, monsieur, parfaitement.” 

“And you,” he added, “ are Provengale.* 

“Comment!” said the child, opening her large dark eyes; “how 
can monsieur guess my province?” 

“Not so very difficult, petite, when I know every province of 
France, and have been watching your face for half an hour.” 

“ Monsieur is a great traveller?” 

“ Ay, I have knocked about these twenty years ; you should be 
one, too, pretty one.” 

“ Moi! ah non, I am only a wanderer.” And the fine head drooped 
again. 

“ What is your name, my child?” 

“Anna-Marie de Laval, monsieur ; mais on m’appelle Fleur-de- 
Marie.” 

“A name beautiful, like yourself; but, pardon, you are not born 
to this?” 

“ No, Signor il Conte.” 

“It is a hard life for one so young and delicate as you ; do you 
sell only cameiV ’ 

“ No, signor; statuettes, too, and I often sit to artists. Sometimes, 
too, I go on at theatres as a super.” 

“ Do you always earn enough to get warmth and food?” 

“ No, monsieur, often not; then I sleep in a church portico, and 
it seems nearer the Madonna, where the buona signora went.” 

“What buona signora ? will you tell me your story, my child? 
you have already made up your mind to trust me, I see.” 

“ Foi de mon ffine! is monsieur a magician?” said the Provengale, 
smiling; “ but he is right. We who are at the mercy of the strong 
learn to use silent weapons, to read faces and voices.” 

“A weapon I have used all my life,” said Guy de Cavagnac, 
struck by an answer so unlike a child, ‘ ‘ and in your last words you 
have confirmed my judgment of you.” 

“ And that is — ” 

“ The same as yours of me — you are to be trusted.” 


42 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Trusted! Who would trust the outcast — the poor cameo-seller 
— a vagrant?” said the Southern, with sudden passionate bitterness. 
“Monsieur’s mother or wife would draw their robe away, lest it 
should touch and contaminate them; do it with haughty pity, that 
wrings curses from me. * Poor child,’ les grandes dames will say, 
‘how can she be anything else?’ I could kill them!” 

“I have neither wife nor mother, and if I had they would not 
treat even the worst of their sex harshly. Tell me your story now, 
Fleur-de-Marie.” 

She told him simply, but with more details than she had given to 
Casper Yon Wolfgang. 

The stranger’s first comment was, 

“ The signora ought to have left you her money.” 

“ She did leave me part, but her relatives and her padre confessare 
got it all, somehow, and gave me the choice of a convent or turning 
out. I left them.” 

“Brave child, to face the world alone. You hated the convent, 
then?” 

“I could die, but not live, in captivity,” was the Proven9ale’s an- 
swer. “I took freedom.” 

“And its dangers,” half murmured Cavagnac. 

“They are less than the other, monsieur.” 

“ C’est vrai, mon enfant.” 

For some minutes both were silent, and then once more the stran- 
ger’s slender hand was laid lightly on the girl’s shoulder. 

“Anna-Marie, what made you" start when I first spoke? Did I 
startle you, my child?” 

“No, monsieur ; it was your voice— something in its tone — that 
reminds me of the voice of — ” 

“Who, caralina?” 

“ II gran’ Maestro.” 

Was it fancy, or did the firm hand, resting on her shoulder, trem- 
ble the hundredth part of an inch? 

“You mean the sculptor, Stewart Claverhouse?” 

“Si, signor.” 

“ Do you know him?” 

The sweet face brightened, the soft eyes smiled. 

“Yes, well. I sat to him. I was never a model to any sculptor 
but him.” 

Mark the difference. She thought no explanation necessary to 
him. She had given one to Casper, but this man, she felt, by her 
subtle woman’s instinct, would not misunderstand her. 

“ Marie, is he not noble, beautiful?” 

“Signor, he should be called ‘II Angelo,’” was the Southern’s 
characteristic answer. “ I call him so, but he only smiles.” 

The stranger dropped his hand, and his lip quivered as he asked, 

“ Where is he now? when did you see him last?” 

“ Two months ago, monsieur. He went to Paris, thence he meant 
to go to England.” 

“To England? to London?” 


THE CHURCH-YARD OP SAINTE AGATHE. 


43 


“Oui, Monsieur le Comte.’* 

“Have you ever been there?” 

“Never, monsieur, but I am on my way there. I want to see 
London.” 

“ It is very lonely there for the friendless, my child.” 

“Qu’importe, monsieur?” said the Wanderer; “all places are alike 
friendless to me. My dog Corsare is my only camarade. I shall be 
no more lonely in London than here. ” 

“Not while he or I are there, ’’muttered the stranger, in English. 
Then aloud he said, “ And now I must go; but we shall meet again, 
Anna. See, give me that Florentine cameo.” 

He took it from her little hand, and dropped two glittering English 
sovereigns into her box, adding, “ Where, then, is your camarade?” 

“ The signor shall see him: Ola! Corsare! amico mio!” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then, leaping over the graves, 
bounding lightly to his mistress’s feet, came one of those beautiful 
wolf-hounds used by the Calabrian shepherds on the mountains. At 
the sight of the stranger the noble animal stopped and fixed on his 
face that look of intense, almost human, observation which we so of- 
ten see in dogs of the nobler breeds. 

“ Eh, then, will you trust me, you magnificent Corsare?” said Cav- 
agnac, holding out his hand. 

The moment he spoke the hound pricked up his ears; then, with a 
pleased whine, began licking his hand all over, evidently liking the 
stranger’s face, voice, and caresses. 

“ He behaved,” said Guy, “ as if he knew my voice, yet he cannot 
possibly do so.” 

“ Pardon, monsieur; his memory of a voice he loves is no less true 
than mine; his ear detects the same resemblance that mine did.” 

Again that slight start ; the stranger stooped over the dog as he said, 

“Explain yourself, Anna.” 

“Corsare was given me nearly three years ago by the maestro,” 
said the child, quietly watching him; and as he raised himself erect 
again his dark eye caught hers. 

“You would fain Yead me, petite, if you could; well, I knew him 
years ago, in his boyhood.” 

“And loved him, monsieur?” 

“ Child, could any one help it? have you not rightly called him II 
Angelo? Listen, Anna; if you are in London before I am, as you 
probably will be, will you deliver a message for me?” 

“I will do anything for monsieur,” said the wanderer, gratefully. 

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, in a low voice, which 
all his control could not make quite steady, 

“ Then, Anna, if you see the maestro anywhere, tell him that Guido 
lives.” 

“ I will seek him out, monsieur.” 

“ God keep thee, my child.” 

The child’s dark eyes filled with tears, and she stooped suddenly, 
kissed his hand, and with an almost whispered ‘ ‘ Au revoir, mon- 
sieur,” walked quickly away, followed closely by the faithful dog. 


44 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


But the stranger sunk down on the little grave, and covered his 
eyes with the right hand her pure lips had touched. Never before, 
in all his wild, reckless, changeful life, had such a kiss rested on that 
beautiful hand. 


CHAPTER II. 

MAGNA CIVITAS, MAGNA SOLITUDO. 

“ Ease her! Stop her!” 

This monotonous chant w r as uttered drearily down the engine- 
room skylight of the river steamer. A grimy, handsome face looked 
up and nodded, and puffing and fussing, the Leopard stopped at the 
Temple Stairs. 

“Now, then, ladies and gents, who’s for the Temple Stairs?” was 
shouted hoarsely above the hum and buzz of steam, as the plank was 
thrown across to the pier, followed by the usual rush and hurry. 
“Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.” Not 
quite, though. More than once on the way from London Bridge the 
handsome, hot, grimy face below had caught sight of a young, beau- 
tiful, foreign face looking down on him from above; and now, com- 
ing up the ladder for a second’s fresh air, he saw the same delicate 
face and slight form standing apart and alone, save for a large dog 
which she held by a short chain. The man touched her kindly. 

“We’re at the Blackfriars Stairs, bairn. Are ye no for landing 
here?” 

Unable to speak much English, and only able to understand it 
when well spoken, the man’s broad, strong Scottish accent made him 
utterly unintelligible to the young foreigner ; but she felt the kind 
tone, and with her sweet, graceful smile shook her head, saying, “No 
understand, monsieur.” 

“Eh, not speak English? Look, then, d’ye land there?” And he 
pointed to the pier, at the same time gently urging her to step tow- 
ards the plank. 

The gestures were understood directly and answered, “Non, mon- 
sieur, Waterloo Pier; merci.” 

“ Know w r hat you’re about, bairn, eh? Poor thing!” 

The rough hand touched her gently, the rough face smiled kindly 
on her, and then he disappeared down the hatchway again. But as 
the boat puffed and steamed and paddled fussily away, the man, 
glancing up, saw the shaggy head of the wolf-hound and the soft, 
girlish face of the stranger looking down, not at the engines, but at 
him. 

On board there was the usual crowd that till the up-river boat of 
a late spring evening. City clerks, going home after a hard day’s 
work; excursionists; the institutional (to coin a word) young man 
and his young woman, the latter in the favorite pink muslin — tum- 
bled now — the black silk cape and pink-stringed, pink-beflowered 
bonnet; the herd of cockneys and milliners’ girls, with the attend- 


MAGNA CIYITAS, MAGNA SOLITUDO. 


45 


ant counter-jumper; the tradesman, with his comfortable, ample 
wife and three or four shockingly healthy Harry the Eighth chil- 
dren; and such a child I abominate. It stares like a small porcine; 
it treads on your dainty patent-leather boots, and is budgeless until 
actually shoved. It is always stuffing with sweets. It is red-legged 
and red-cheeked; and if by ill-luck you say a word to it, will not be 
got rid of at any price. Ugh ! 

There was, of course, the old woman who always looks like a 
monthly nurse, and commits a fraud upon society when she dares 
to travel by anything but an omnibus, to which she by right belongs. 
In a train or steamboat she has not the least right. She breathes 
hard and asthmatically. She can never find her ticket; never get 
along fast enough; never in any way “look out” for herself, and 
therefore has no right, legally or morally, to go where every one has 
his own business to attend to. 

Such was, for the most part, the crowd among which the Roman 
cameo-seller stood solitary and friendless, though not unnoticed, for 
her foreign appearance had drawn upon her many a rude stare and 
insolent remark from several. One even, set on by Polly, had asked 
her, smirkingly, “What she’d got to sell in that box?” The tone 
was unmistakably insolent, but the girl merely said, with quiet dis- 
tance, “ Je ne vous comprends pas,” and turned away. 

With a laugh, Mr. Counter-jumper laid his hand on the box to en- 
force his meaning, when a low, fierce growl from the wolf-hound made 
him start back in alarm, while Anna-Marie, with a contemptuous smile, 
caressed the faithful animal. 

“He’s a mind to take care of you, miss,” said a man in a blue 
* monkey,’ and he pointed to the dog. “ Won’t let that fellow insult 
you, eh?” 

The Proven^ale could follow his meaning, and answered with a 
smile and a “Non, monsieur.” 

“Is he yours?” 

“ Oui, mon chien, mon camarade.” 

“ He is a deuced fine dog,” remarked the man, stroking the hound, 
and Corsare acknowledged it, as a gentlemanly dog should, by lick- 
ing his hand. 

“Eh, sir, you know I’m praising you, then.” 

“ He likes you,” said the girl, in her pretty delicate English. 

“ Is he savage- tempered?” 

“Oh non; gentle — il est vrai quil n’aime pas ces gens M!” and her 
contemptuous glance and shrug made her meaning clear enough to 
him. 

“Eh, good dog: he’s of no English breed?” 

“Plait-il, monsieur?” said Anna-Marie, inquiringly. 

“He is not English?” repeated the man, smiling. 

“Inglis? non; Italiano, Calabrian wolf-hound.” 

“He is valuable, you know; worth money,” added the other, 
showing her a gold coin; “ a rare dog here. I suppose you will sell 
him?” 

The cameo-seller opened her dark eyes wide. 


46 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Non, monsieur: je ne le vendrai jamais — jamais.” 

“Have you ever been in England before— in London?” 

“ALondres? non, monsieur. ” 

“Your friends will meet you, of course?” said the man, confident- 
ly. “ Ought to, as it’s growing latish.” 

“ I have none,” said Fleur-de-Marie. 

“ None— no friends? good Lord !” said the man ; “you’re a deuced 
sight too pretty to be alone in a city !” 

The Proven^ale looked half surprised, half puzzled, but her an- 
swer was sad enough : 

“lam used to it, monsieur.” 

“Now, then! Temple Pier. Who lands?” came the hoarse cry, 
and the man, with a hasty “Good-evening, my dear,” darted away, 
and vanished in the crowd on the pier. 

The wanderer looked wistfully after him, and then shivered as 
her glance fell on the dark rolling river ; then she glided to the sky- 
light once more, and looked down. There he was, moving about 
between the machinery, but he glanced up and nodded, and when 
the boat stopped at Waterloo Pier he jumped on deck. 

“Here ye are, bairn, and God speed ye; the Lord will no forget 
ye, more won’t Archie Gregor.” 

“Merci, and I shall never forget you — never,” said the child, and 
so they parted. 

Doubtless that man’s little kindness, the few heart- felt words, the 
kind smiles, the sincere “ God speed ye,” went up for a memorial of 
him, and wiped out many a sin. 

Turning with the stream, Anna de Laval presently found herself 
in a somewhat narrow, but bustling, crowded street — the Strand ; 
but Corsare arrested her steps : the poor dog was hungry, and he 
stopped short at a baker’s shop, looking up in his mistress’s face 
with that speaking look of wistful entreaty that is so irresistible. 

“ Poor Corsare.” 

She entered the shop, spent her two last pennies in buying two 
penny loaves, gave one to the dog, and ate the other herself. Then 
the two wanderers went forth once more, but it was dark now, and 
the sky was heavy with threatening black clouds. 

What crowds of people swept ceaselessly past her; no foreign 
city was like it; every one seemed in a hurry and bustle — carriages, 
carts, omnibuses, vehicles of all kinds, rattling along in an endless 
deafening noise. 

At first the cameo-seller half mechanically offered her pretty for- 
eign wares to passers-by, but her gentle “Please buy, monsieur,” 
drew from one man a rough “Oh, go to hell, gal! the police ought 
to lock up such trash as you!” Another, dressed at least as a gen- 
tleman, and bustling along, told her — “ Out of the way, or I’ll give 
you in charge.” While a third, who looked like a hanger-on at 
theatres, said, with a sneer, “You’re devilish pretty, my dear, but 
you needn’t make a cover of those toys : any one can see through a 
ladder.” 

The wanderer turned away. Insult was not new to her, nor was 


MAGNA CIVITAS, MAGNA SOLITUDO. 


47 


the little episode which followed. A handsomely dressed woman 
— a Frenchwoman, evidently — passed along, glanced at her, and then, 
as if on second thoughts, stopped and addressed her in very vulgar 
French. 

“Mon enfant, you are too young and pretty to be out alone at 
this hour. Go home, ma chere.” 

The silky, kind manner, the handsome dress, did not for a moment 
deceive Anna de Laval, and she answered with cold hauteur, 

“ I am safe enough. I have no home or friends.” 

“Pauvre enfant, ignorant of the dangers which surround you. 
Come with me, and I will find you a lodging.” 

The Proven^ale bowed low. 

“ La pauvre enfant is so perfectly aware of the dangers that she has 
the ‘ honor ’ to wish madame a very good-evening and a safe journey. ” 

“ A safe journey, ma ch&re! Where?” 

“ Au diable,” answered the cameo-seller, coolly, as she turned on 
her heel. 

“ Coquine! diablesse! maudite! — ” but Anna lost the choicest epi- 
thets of the elegant shower; and perhaps there is no individual who 
has at command a more varied and foul vocabulary of abuse than a 
low, disreputable Frenchwoman. 

The Proven9ale wandered on slowly, and found her way at last 
into broad Regent Street, now brilliantly lighted up, and near a shop- 
window she paused and looked round, utterly forlorn and weary, 
sick at heart, alone in that great city. The crowd swept past her — 
business -seekers, pleasure - seekers, sin -seekers, but not one of all 
those thousands whose face or voice was familiar; no place where 
the weary head of the stranger could be laid at rest even for one 
short night. 

“Corsare, mon ami, it is cold and cheerless here — not like our 
warm South,” she whispered, talking to the hound as indeed to a 
friend. ‘'We must sleep under some portico to-night and to-mor- 
row find the maestro.” 

Corsare licked her face and hand, understanding the loving voice 
and eyes, if not the words; and with her little hand resting on his 
shaggy head, the two went on again, not quite alone, not utterly 
friendless with that faithful companion and friend at her side. 
Yet even to him her right was challenged, for a policeman stopped 
her, demanding how she got that odd dog, too handsome for. such 
as her to own. 

“ II m’a accompagne de l’ltalie,” she said, tightening her grasp on 
the steel chain, in itself of foreign make. 

“Can’t you speak English? Bother!” He glanced round, and 
addressed a flashily dressed female, whom he evidently knew. 

“I say, here, Miss Bessie, do tell a fellow what this Frenchy’s* 
lingo means, will yer?” 

The woman stopped, with a hard laugh. 

“ Well, what’s up?” 

“Why, this dog ain’t hers. Young ’un, tell this lady where you 
got it.” 


48 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


The girl’s lip curled, but she repeated her answer. 

“She brought it from Italy, she says. ’Tain’t an English dog, 
either.” 

“Hem — no; but might be stole, for all that,” said the man, suspi- 
ciously, and laid his hand on the chain. Corsare growled and show- 
ed his teeth, half crouching, as if for a spring. The man stepped 
back hastily. The woman laughed, but said, with a touch of wom- 
anly feeling yet left in her, 

“Let the child go. The very dumb brute tells you plain enough 
that she’s his own mistress. Good night.” 

She sailed on, bobby turned on his heel, and the girl and the dog 
went their way, 

“ Baffled, weary, and dishearten’d,” 

till at last, late at night, worn out, they crept under the deep, gloomy 
portico of a handsome mansion, and soon slept the deep sleep of the 
weary, the dog lying close on her dress, the girl’s head resting on 
the dog’s curling thick hair, each nestling close to the other for 
warmth, a perfect picture, beautiful, indeed, and very sad ; the very 
policeman was touched, and would not see them. But at midnight 
he was succeeded by a comrade less merciful, younger, more offi- 
cious and bullying in the discharge of his duty, and his rough voice 
soon roused the wanderers. 

“Now, you young vagrant, get up! How dare you go a-sleepin’ 
on a gentleman’s door-steps?” 

Anna-Marie rose slowly, answering, “ It will not hurt him or you, 

murien” 

“None o’ your impidence, gal! You jist come along with me. 
I’ll teach ye that the law don’t let vagabones sleep in the streets. 
Come on.” 

So the poor cameo -seller was taken to the station-house, and 
locked up for the crime of not having a sou to pay for a lodging. 
“Eh bien, Corsare, it is better here than on the door-step,” she said, 
as the cell-door closed, and soon the two slept again. 

“Well, my good girl, and what have you to say to the charge?” 
asked Mr. Turton, the magistrate, the next morning, after hearing 
Jack-in-office. 

“Plait-il, monsieur?” 

“ Cannot you speak English?” 

“ I can understand a little, monsieur, but not speak but very little.” 

So the magistrate questioned her in French. 

“ Have you been long in London?” 

“I arrived yesterday, monsieur.” 

“Well, the English law does not allow any one to sleep on door- 
steps or in the streets.” 

“But, monsieur, I had not a sou, not one bajocco, to get lodging.” 

“I cannot help that; the law must be fulfilled. As you are so 
young, and a stranger, I shall let you off this time, but you must not 
do it again.” 


SOMETHING I HAD NEVER DARED TO WRITE. 


49 


“Merci, monsieur; and when I have no money what must I do?” 
“Go to the workhouse or a refuge. Meanwhile, I shall give you 
a shilling out of the poor-box.” 

“Monsieur, I am not a beggar,”said Anna de Laval, haughtily. 
“I want neither your money nor your workhouse. Monsieur, bon- 
jour.” And the Proven^ale left the court with her dog. 


MANUSCRIPT X. 

SOMETHING I HAD NEVER DARED TO WRITE. 

Back again in London, and welcomed back by all my acquaint- 
ance, as well as by my mother and Nina, who had themselves only 
just arrived from Naples. Years had not much altered Georgine — 
women of her type look old when they are young, and young when 
they are middle-aged; but Nina Lennox had changed indeed, and 
yet not changed: Nature had only more than fulfilled the promise 
of her beautiful childhood, but it was the Nina of old — now gay and 
laughing, now grave and thoughtful, as a saddened woman, always 
full of those thousand little sweet winning ways of hers; but it star- 
tled me, strangely and indefinitely, to see that the large deep -blue 
eyes had not lost the expression which even as a boy had so struck 
me, a curious look, as if the shadow of future sorrow had fallen 
there; it reminded me— it always had reminded me — of Stewart’s 
eyes, but in his it was something more unearthly, more deeply mel- 
ancholy, more — shall I write it? — more doomed. What I had never 
dared to put in words was done for me the very first week of my re- 
turn by a stranger, whose words came to my ears by chance in the 
street. I had stopped at a large picture-shop in Regent Street to 
look at some photographs. There were two other gentlemen there ; 
one, the younger, looked like a medical student; the elder might 
have been a physician, certainly a professional man. 

“ Who the deuce is this dark man?” said the former. 

“Not know him! Why, it is the great sculptor, Stewart Claver- 
house— ‘ il gran ’ Maestro’ they call him. I see by the Times that he 
is coming over here soon.” 

“What a very handsome face it is.” 

“It is far inferior to the original; it is a wonderful face, but it 
saddened me when I saw it.” 

“ Saddened— why?” 

I heard the answer distinctly as the two turned away slowly. 

“Because he is doomed. You may smile, but my miserable gift 
has never yet failed me. He will die young, and die violently; it is 
in his eyes.” 

I turned sick and dizzy for a minute, as if I had received a blow. 

“ I am a fool !” I muttered, “ to care for such chance words, spoken 
by a stranger, of a man I have not seen for twelve years, and whom 
I do not like.” 

4 


50 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Vain sophistry! Like him? no, there were times when I hated the 
thought of him; but, for all that, time and absence had failed to 
loosen the wonderful power of his fascination — some subtle charm, 
to me wholly inexplicable, whose existence was not a fancy, but a 
fact. 

I shuddered in a vague dread as I walked on again: something 
dark and horrible and ghastly seemed to have loomed up suddenly 
on my life. O God! if there be a God— was it on me even then? 

I had not gone many yards towards the Circus when I heard a 
mellow voice behind me say, 

“Surely an old pupil of mine?” and a hand on my shoulder 
wheeled me round. “ Yes, it is Casper Von Wolfgang.” 

“Dr. John Fantony!” I exclaimed, in unfeigned pleasure and sur- 
prise. 

Handsome, noble old man, not changed by time, save that his hair 
was silvery white now: the stately figure was as erect as of yore; 
the blue eye as clear and bright. His seventy years were beautiful 
indeed. 

“Yes, the old man himself,” he said, as we walked on together. 
“I saw you some way down, and I thought I recognized the walk as 
like what yours was ten years ago. What are you doing? not in any 
profession?” 

“No, sir, none; I had no taste for any of them, you know.” 

‘ * I remember. Is Mrs. von W olfgang well, and your little cousin ?” 

“Thank you, quite well; but Nina is a tall girl now — nearly nine- 
teen,” said I, smiling. 

“Dear me, yes; you all get on so fast, that one forgets; a sign of 
age, Casper.” 

“You don’t look older, sir, than when I was with you. I suppose, 
if it is not an impertinent question, that you have long since given 
up Allington Lodge?” 

“Oh yes, this six or seven years ago. My boy would have it.” 

“Your boy?” I repeated, for I knew that he was a bachelor. 

“Your old companion, Stewart Claverliouse; and ever since my 
home has been either at Ernescliffe Hall, or his house in London — a 

family mansion, you know, in Square. I expect him every day 

from Paris, and I’ve got the house ready; even his studio is arranged, 
for his Italian servant arrived two days back with such of his works 
of art as were not already with me. You have never seen him since 
he left school?” 

“No, sir, never; but I hope to see him now.” 

“ Of course you know at least some of his works?” 

“Not to do so, Doctor John, would be to argue myself unknown. 

I have seen some of the most famous of them, and among them that 
most perfect ideal, ‘ A Poet’s Dream.’ ” 

“Ah, that is indeed a gem; it has not a fault, from the minutest 
chiselling of the broken column on the steps of which the dreamer 
sleeps to the lightest fold of the child’s drapery. And her face! 
He must have idealized his model in the halo of his own thought.” 

“Partly, Doctor John, but the model was little less beautiful than 


IL ANGELO. 


51 


the sculpture. I came across her in Rome a fortnight ago. She is a 
cameo and image seller, about fifteen, and quite alone in the world,” 

“ Poor young thing, poor child; it grieves me always to hear such 
things. So young and lovely ! What can become of a girl like that ?” 

“ Certainly, sir, no good in general; but this one is no common 
model. You know his beautiful life-size statue of a girl leaning on 
a cross?” 

4 ‘Of course; the Earl of D has it. You mean the famous 

‘ Fiora di Maria?’ ” 

“Ay; this Provencale sat for that,” said I. 

“ I should like td see her,” said Dr. John. “I should very much 
like to see her.” 

“Well, sir, she is very likely to wander to London. You might 
see her.” 

“I hope I shall. Ah, here is Street, and I have a call to 

make there; so good-by for the present, Wolfgang. I am really 
very glad to have met you, and so, I am sure, will my grand-nephew 
be to see you again. ” 

I remembered the somewhat Jesuitical answer of Stewart years 
ago, and doubted this, but his last word made me ask, 

“Pardon me, doctor, how is he your t/nmd-nephew?” 

“ Why, I had a sister many years older than myself, who was mar- 
ried to a Colonel Egmont, and they left one daughter, “Cora. She 
was barely eighteen when she married Graham Claverhouse, of 
Ernescliffe Hall. Stewart is her son.” 

“ An only child, then?” 

“Ay, yes, an only child. Once more good-by.” 

“Good-by, doctor.” 

We shook hands and parted company; but, strangely enough, all 
the way home the name of Stewart’s dead mother was in my head. 
Cora! what a sweet name! Was he like her? was it from her he 
took his beauty? And I tried to picture her; but always, instead 
of the dark, doomed face which alone could be like the great sculp- 
tor, there rose before me, in all its goiden beauty, the face of Nina 
Jjepnox. 


CHAPTER III. 

IL ANGELO. 

^ Will monsieur tell me, }s thftt the Dover train coming in?” 

The inspector addressed turned quickly at the §apnd of the soft 
voice and very foreign English, to see a young foreigner in a pictu- 
resque dress, with a pretty mahogany box slung at her side, and hold- 
ing a large dog by a chain. 

“Yes, it’s the Dover train, ’’lie answered, and passed on. 

Anna-Marie drew back a little, and waited patiently till the train 
Came in and discharged its living cargo, and then her eyes sought 
eagerly among the crowd for one form and face; but for all her 


52 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


watching the wolf-hound saw him first, and gave a sudden pull, that 
almost overthrew his mistress’s balance. 

“ Eh bien, mon chien, go, then, to him,” she said, giving the leash 
out a little; but the dog, in his excitement, sprung forward, dragged 
the chain from her hand, and alarmed several people by dashing 
among them, and springing in frantic joy on a tall dark man who was 
walking along the platform at an easy lounge, amusingly at variance 
with the bustle around him. 

“ Corsare! where do you come from?” he said, in pleased surprise, 
caressing the Calabrian, and lifting the chain, just as Anna de Laval, 
following, quickly came up. 

“ Monsieur! I am happy to see you again,” she said, with a quick 
flush of joy. 

4 ‘And I, my child— my dear Anna — I little thought your sweet 
face would be the first to welcome me to England.” 

And as he put the chain back into her hand he held it for a min- 
ute in his own, and drew her aside. 

“And so, caralina, you have wandered to this great busy capital, 
and here too. How did you stray here, my child?” 

The girl looked up in the beautiful face, and smiled. 

“ I have been here two days, waiting for the signor.” 

“For me? First, how could you know when to expect me?” 

“ I went'into a grande boutique, where I saw a picture, a photo- 
graph of the signor, and asked if they knew when you would come. 
They answered, ‘ The papers had said in a day or two;’ so I came 
here.” 

“ Strange child. Why?” 

‘ ‘ Monsieur, London is so wide, that perhaps I might have lost you 
in it, and I had promised to give you a message.” 

“A message, Anna? — from whom?” 

“A stranger, who met me near Heidelberg, and bade me, if I saw 
the Signor Maestro first, tell him — shall I say it here?” 

“ Yes, we are speaking Italian; tell me what — ” 

‘ ‘ His words were, ‘ Anna, if you see the maestro anywhere, tell 
him that Guido lives/” 

The sculptor looked at the child like a man in a dream, and then 
shook his head with a sorrowful smile. 

“ Some one would mock me, Anna. The Guido I loved was mur- 
dered; if not, I should have seen him years ago.” 

“Signor, no — listen. The man who gave me the message was 
dark and handsome. His hand was like that of the maestro, his 
voice had tones in it like the one I knew so well. Is that II Angelo’s 
Guido?” 

“ Hush, Anna, my child!” 

He walked forward a little way, and presently came back to her. 

“Anna, you have indeed given me a golden word. The man you 
saw was Guido, my friend. Is he in London?” 

“I do not know, monsieur; he said he was coming, but I only 
arrived a week ago, and I have not seen him.” 

“ Cara mia, did he tell you his own name?” 


l’inconnu. 


53 


“ Non, monsieur, only the name he calls himself — Monsieur le 
Comte de Cavagnac.” 

“Eh bien! And now, Anna-Marie, where can I find you, if need 
be?” 

“I lodge, monsieur, at Court, Edgeware Road.” 

“I shall remember. Meanwhile, I want a present for my uncle’s 
old house-keeper.” 

And he lifted the lid of her box, showing a tray of exquisite cam- 
eos — real ones — for he himself had stocked her box as a parting gift. 

“ The signor will deign to choose the best.” 

The signor chose a large shawl-brooch, and smiling, asked the 
price. 

“ It has none for II Angelo.” 

But the sculptor only shook his head, and laid three sovereigns in 
its place, with a look which she knew of old there was no gainsaying. 

“ Adio, fanciulla mia.” 

“A rivederl&, Signor II Angelo.” 

And each went their way. 


MANUSCRIPT XI. 
l’inconnu. 

The second day after my meeting with Dr. Fantony I went down 
to Dover to see my half-brother Walter, who was stopping there 
with his family before coming to town for the approaching season. 

The journey down was stupid enough, unmarked by either pleas- 
ant conversation or incident; the only person I exchanged a word 
with called in requisition my stock of German, which was pretty 
good. Some little way from the station I was addressed in very pure 
German by a man muffled up in a large coat and cap; but, toqudge 
by his stooping gait and gruff voice, he was not young. 

Could I tell him of any good hotel? He was a stranger, he said, 
and hoped I would excuse him. 

I told him he was welcome, and told him I was myself going to a 
very good one to see a friend, and I should be very happy to show 
him the way. He thanked me and accepted my offer, and proved an 

agreeable companion. We parted in the hall of ’s hotel very 

good friends, and I made my way up to the apartments occupied by 
the Falconbridges. I would not be announced, but entered by a 
boudoir, and stood just within the half-open drawing-room door 
looking at the group within, unnoticed myself. 

It was a picture. 

A large fire blazed cheerily and brightly in the low grate, so 
brightly that it threw light and shade, though the daylight was not 
yet on the wane. 

. By a small table, bending over her drawing, sat Lady Falcon- 
bridge, Theodora, a woman a little over thirty, and one of the most 
lovely English matrons that I ever saw — lovely in I know not what 


54 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


nameless charms, for personally few could have judged her more 
than very pretty; but Nina called her a sweet, pure woman, and in 
that, I think, touched the very key-note that tuned the loving har- 
mony of her nature. 

On the rug sat the two eldest children, of eight and ten years old, 
a girl and boy, listening intently to their father, who was reading 
aloud to them Maria Hack’s “Winter Evenings;” and, though his 
brother says it, even this land of handsome men and women cannot 
show many a handsomer English gentleman than Walter Falcon- 
bridge. The group was completed and made perfect by a lovely 
child of four years who nestled in his arms, the better to peep at the 
pictures. I stood for some ten minutes looking, and then said, 
quietly, 

“ What a very pretty picture you would make.” 

There was a general start. 

“ Casper himself, by all good -luck!” exclaimed Walter, and my 
hand was nearly wrung off, while his wife and the children gave me 
an equally warm reception, little Flora transferring herself to my 
knees. 

“And when did you arrive, old fellow? and how long can you 
give us here?” asked Walter. 

“Have you dined, or lunched, or eaten in some way, Casper?” 
asked Theodora. 

“Eaten? Yes, plenty, thank you. Nina tells me that you have 
been ruralizing here.” 

“ Indeed we have; but we are coming up in a week or so.” 

“Alec, I suppose you like Dover better than London?” 

“I should think so, uncle. It’s so jolly here; isn’t it, Amy?” 

“ Oh, stunning,” returned the little lady, with a wicked glance at 
mamma. 

“ ‘ Stunning,’ indeed. Pussy, is that language for Miss Falcon- 
bridge?” laughed I. 

“Bother the miss,” returned missy, jauntily. “I like best to — 
what is it, papa?” 

“ Ask your uncle.” 

“ Follow your own sweet will. Eh, Miss Amy?” 

Little Flora, commonly called Dottie, here interposed. 

“ Uncle Cas, what do you think? somebody came here yesterday 
who knew you.” 

“ Did he? Who was he, Dot?” 

“I didn’t say it was a he. Guess who.” 

“Was it a she?” 

“No,” said she, making a mouth, which 1 kissed, “it wasn’t a she. ” 

“Oh, a he, then, after all. Was he English?” 

“I don’t know. Was he, Alec? He didn’t look English, nor 
speak quite like — not like you or papa.” 

I was really puzzled, but made a guess. “ Papa’s old French 
friend, Monsieur Gustave Distau?” 

“No; he’s old and plain, very plain; but this person was young, 
and oh, so beautiful!” 


l’inconnu. 


55 


“It couldn’t be— no, the description won’t do, and papa doesn’t 
know him — my old school-fellow, Gus Seymour?” 

“No; hut you’re burning, uncle. He said he had been at school 
with you. Guess again.” 

I started, and looked at my brother. “ She can’t mean— you don’t 
know him, Walter?” 

“Well, who?” 

“ I had but one school-fellow who would strike the child as ‘ so 
beautiful,’ and that is the sculptor, Stewart Claverhouse. ” 

“ Precisely, Mr. Casper. He landed yesterday early; spent two 
hours here, and went on to London.” 

“Where did you meet him?” said I, in surprise. 

“Dora and I met him last autumn twelvemonth in Vienna. He 
has taken the children’s hearts by storm. They would make me 
take them with him up to the train. And Miss Dottie, l^ere, nothing; 
would do but he must carry her every step. ” 

“And tired him, I am afraid,” said Theodora. “I am sure he ! 
isn’t very strong.” 

“He is, or was, very muscular,” said I, “and he was never ill as 
a boy. He had a large fund of concealed strength.” 

“Perhaps. But,” added Lady Falconbridge in French, as she rose 
to ring for lights, “he is not a long-lived man.” 

Again that blow; that ghastly feeling of something dread and un- 
seen to come. I was glad of the lights, and anything that turned 
the subject to other things. 

I remained with them two days, during which, by the way, I en- 
countered my German acquaintance twice, coming in, in his odd big 
cap and coat. The third morning I took leave of the Falconbridges 
and walked up to the station, reaching in time to pick a car- 
iage in which was only an elderl } 7 gentleman and a very young 
man. 

The second bell had rung when the door was opened in a most 
leisurely manner, and in came a tall, slight, dark man, wearing a 
somewhat Spanish-shaped felt hat, and with a heavy cloak cast across 
him in carelessly graceful folds. He was certainly a foreigner; but, 
save for a glance, he seemed to notice nothing, but sat by the win- 
dow so shadowed and concealed by his hat and cloak that I could 
not see much of either his face or form, yet I felt a great desire to 
see his face and hear him speak. An opportunity offered before we 
had gone many miles, when, looking at my watch, I found that it 
had stopped. I addressed the stranger in French, though he certain- 
ly was not a Frenchman. “ Monsieur, my watch has stopped; will 
you oblige me by telling me the time?” 

He bowed gravely, and held out in his gloved hand a beautiful 
chronometer watch. I glanced at it, set my watch, and as I replaced 
it said in English, 

“Many thanks, monsieur; I suppose this is your first visit to Eng- 
land?” 

“No, I have been here before; I have been in most coun- 
tries.” 


56 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


I started. Was I mistaken? Could my ear deceive me? Surely 
no; like 

“ A song from out the distance ” 

came that low, soft voice, and peculiar, delicate accent, altered in 
that it was yet more mellowed and tranquil, but still the same. If I 
could only hear it more, and only see his hand, I should be positive 
If it was that man, he did not know me, evidently. How should he? 
Twelve years had changed me from youth to mature manhood. 

I answered his remark. 

* ‘ That is more than I can say. My experience, though pretty good, 
is not quite so wide.” 

“ It would be difficult to be so, Monsieur 1’ Anglais, since I have at 
least eight or ten years more than you, and was wandering while you 
were in thewiursery. Have you just come from the Continent?” 

“ Yes,” said I, carelessly, to conceal my chagrin; “ from Home this 
time, and, by Jove! I encountered, only the day before I left, the 
loveliest and most patrician-looking cameo-seller that one could wish 
to see!” 

4 ‘ Eh, monsieur,” said the stranger, with a half-laugh; “and you 
found her, I suppose, more beautiful than any picture or dream?” 

That laugh, half -mocking, half — I know not what; but it stung 
me as that same laugh — it was the same, surely — had stung me years 
ago. 

“Oh, as to that,” I answered, with my most blase air, “she was 
deuced pretty; but one can’t fall in love with a child of fourteen or 
fifteen, you know.” 

“Ah, no, not at your age, perhaps,” he said, quietly; “ one must 
have seen more of life — hard, uphill, real life, and — shall I say — be 
more seared, to thoroughly appreciate the charm and freshness of a 
child of that age.” 

Though chafing inwardly, and angry at the power he had to chafe 
me, I replied, 

“This girl had lost the very freshness you admire; it was de- 
stroyed.” 

“ Are you sure that you can judge any one in a single interview?” 

Before I could answer, the old gentleman interposed, 

“It is not very likely, sir, that a Roman cameo-seller would have 
much freshness of any sort left.” 

‘ ‘ Nor had this one, sir, ” said I. ‘ ‘ She had lost that f reshness/rom 
the world which this gentleman, as a man of the world, considers 
so fascinating. She had suffered and toiled — does still, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ I don’t think,” remarked the old gentleman, “ that at that age 
children can suffer as much as a few years later; it isn’t in them — 
within their capabilities.” 

The stranger glanced at him, and I saw his delicate lip curl slight- 
ly, and I wondered if by any chance he had ever known Anna de 
Laval, and was possibly thinking of her as he answered, 

“Some girls there are, monsieur — a few, 1 grant — who at four- 


L*INCONNU. 


57 


teen, ay, *and younger, can and do suffer as keenly and deeply as ever 
they will in their lives.” 

“ Then, sir, they are not children: they have lost childhood.” 

“ A thous'and pardons — only in so far as suffering is so unnatural 
and foreign to extreme youth that freedom from it is the great 
charm and feature of childhood.” 

“ Sir, would you call the city arab of London, the gamin of Paris, 
children? — yet, Heaven knows, they suffer! Where is their child- 
hood?” 

“The most of them, monsieur, never had any to lose. They are 
born of and in vice, bred to it ; theirs is the brutalizing suffering of 
hardship and vice. They are born old, they are vicious men and 
women almost as soon as they can walk and talk ; they learn to curse 
and blaspheme as creatures born children learn their mother’s name, 
or the first simple prayer from her lips. Monsieur, you must shift 
your ground.” 

** Well, as you will. Did you ever see a child long remember its 
troubles or injuries? If it does, the first thing one remarks is, ‘ How 
very ^childlike!’ ” 

“ What range of age are you including?” 

“ Your own— up to fourteen.” 

“ Then, monsieur, indeed you are quite mistaken, if you will par- 
don me for saying so, and have surely seen very little of children. 
Were you an only child with kind parents?” 

“ Yes, a mother, the best and kindest a man could have,” returned 
the old man. 

For one second the stranger paused, I thought, as if touched and 
pained by an answer that perhaps stirred a hundred sad and bitter 
memories. Then he said, 

“Then you never felt, and, from your argument, never saw, a child 
suffer; above all, suffer injustice which morally murders it. Injus^ 
tice is what a child never forgets, and very rarely forgives, and it 
teaches it, as nothing else will teach it, what youth should never 
know — to hate fiercely.” 

“ Perhaps you are right. And, speaking of little people, there is 
another thing, sir, about children (that is striking, I mean), their 
very true instinct of physiognomy — nothing can deceive it — or very 
little, certainly.” 

“ Quite true, monsieur. I rarely trust a man whom children and 
dogs dislike.” 

“Nor I. Women, too, have that fine instinct more than men.” 

“They have; but,” he added, half laughing, “it is a womanish 
quality which I possess to an extent that often astonishes myself. 
I have come across so many people in my life to whom I have taken 
that invincible suspicious dislike, and I have never yet found myseli 
at fault. It is a curious faculty, impossible to define or reason upon.” 

As he spoke, the train, which had been slackening speed, stopped 
at a station, and the old gentleman and his young friend got out, 
leaving me and the Italian— for such I judged him— alone in the car 
riage. 


58 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


I was looking out of the window as the train again moved on, but 
as I was drawing in my head the sunlight struck on something op- 
posite me, and threw a dazzling ray in my eyes, completely blinding 
me for a second — only a second, and then I saw that the foreigner’s 
felt hat lay beside him, that his heavy mantle was thrown off his 
shoulder, and that his right hand, ungloved, rested on the door, while 
the gleaming gem in the signet-ring on his third finger at once showed 
me what had dazzled my vision. 

That beautiful, slender hand— could I mistake it? No, my memo- 
ry had not, did not, fail me. I had said I should know his voice 
and hand again at any distance of time, and I had; ay, and recog- 
nized him, too, although he had dared me to do so : it was the strange 
rider. What a handsome man he was ! too marked, too distingue , to 
be passed by or forgotten when once seen ; but his had been no easy 
or happy life, I felt sure— a wild youth, a reckless, anxious, ever-rest- 
less manhood had left their traces; his six or seven and thirty years 
had been no child’s-play. 

“ He certainly doesn’t recognize me,” thought I, triumphantly; 
but aloud, I remarked, cursorily, 

“ Our fellow-travellers have very soon deserted us.” 

“Qu’importe? tw~o are good company,” and I felt that the large, 
brilliant dark eyes were fixed on me. “ We probably shall not part 
so soon, as I presume that Monsieur Casper Yon Wolfgang is return- 
ing to London.” 

I started — I felt thoroughly 4 4 sold ’’—aghast. 

“What! you do know me, then?” 

“Of course,” said he, coolly; “I told you I should, and I have 
proved my words no boast. Yours were — ” 

“Excuse me,” said I, hotly — for I was thoroughly vexed — “we 
are quits. Your face I see for the first time, but I asserted that I 
should know your voice and hand again—” 

“ And you did not—” 

“Pardon me if I contradict you, but I did; to-day the moment 
you spoke I recognized your voice and accent, and your hand, too, 
as soon as you dropped your mantle. ” 

“Ay, Monsieur Yon Wolfgang, but you did not recognize me or 
my voice two days ago, when you came down here.” 

“Two days ago, w T hen I came down here?” I repeated, in utter 
astonishment. 

He laughed, that half - amused, half-mocking laugh which had 
rung in my ears twelve years ago. 

“ Has monsieur forgotten his German acquaintance, whom he so 
courteously escorted to his hotel?” 

“ No; he was an old man with a gruff voice.” 

“Do you call six-and-thirty old?” 

I looked at him. Was this slight, handsome, soft- voiced man 
really the gruff old German? 

“Are you jesting?” 

“No. I saw you get out of the train and enter the refreshment- 
room. I instantly resolved to test your boasted memory against my 


L*INCONNU. 


59 


words, that unless I chose it you would not know me. I easily got 
a disguise at a neighboring mont-de-piete, and when you came out of 
the station followed you. You know the sequel. I have only to 
ask a thousand pardons for what I must confess to be a somewhat 
boyish lark, as you Inglesi call it, and to hope that I have not offend- 
ed you by it.” 

“ No, no; don’t mention it,” said I, hastily, for his graceful apology 
made me ashamed of my vexation. “I had no idea that any one 
could so completely disguise himself.” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” said he, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Isn’t it?” said I. “ May I ask you a question or two?” 

He bowed, with a quiet smile that I am sure I read aright. “Yes, 
but I will answer only as suits me.” 

“Well, then, twelve years ago you used to me this expression, 
when I said I should know you again, ‘Not you, it is not your trade,’ 
implying that it was yours.” 

“ Wliat does monsieur take me for?” 

“ I don’t know,” said I, frankly, and with an irresistible laugh at 
the odd turn of the conversation. “You puzzled me then as now, 
but I perfectly remember my boyish judgment of you.” 

“And what was that, if I may ask?” 

I hesitated, colored, and laughed. 

“I am afraid it was not entirely complimentary, but, as I said, 
you puzzled me: you seemed to me under disguise, and yet you were 
unmistakably a man of birth — a gentleman.” 

A shade came over his handsome face, strangely regretful and 
sorrowful, as he said, 

“A boyish judgment. You thought, then, that a gentleman could 
never be under disguise; yet your guess, Monsieur Casper, was not so 
very far wrong, for, as you English say, ‘ Necessity has no law ;’ but I 
have been or done no worse than most men. I am a gentleman still. ” 

It needed no word to prove it. Patrician was indelibly stamped 
in every feature and movement. 

There was a long silence, which I broke. 

“ I remember that when I saw you, twelve years ago, I could not 
at all be sure to what country you belonged.” 

I fancied that he shivered slightly, but he asked, quietly, 

“ Have you decided the question now, monsieur?” 

“Why, yes. I fancy I can tell a man’s nationality well enough; 
it is a thing that very few can conceal.” 

“True — as a general remark ; what, then, am I? French, Ger- 
man — ” 

“No,” said I, laughing at his allusion; “you are an Italian.” 

He bowed gravely, and leaning back, sat for a long time silent. 
So did I, until I remembered that he had an advantage, which I saw 
no reason to allow him, if I could help it.” 

“Signor,” said I, “you have an advantage over me, and an ex- 
change is no robbery. Might I ask the favor — ” 

My voice roused him from a deep reverie, for he looked up 
quickly. 


60 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


• 

“ Of my name, Monsieur Yon Wolfgang?* 

“S’il vous plait, Monsieur l’lnconnu.” 

He laughed softly, and said, wrapping his mantle about him, 

“At least, if monsieur wishes it, I can give him the name under 
which he will meet me, very possibly, at the house or in the com- 
pany of a mutual acquaintance.” 

“Pest on himl Stumped again!” thought I, but I only bowed, 
and said, 

“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as 
sweet.” 

“ And Romeo by any other name would still be Romeo. Eh bien, 
call me Count de Cavagnac.” 

“ As you so will it, monsieur. Ah, here we are at another station.” 

Again the train stopped, other passengers came in, and for the 
rest of the journey the conversation was general. I parted with my 
strange companion at the cab-stand outside the terminus with a 
shake of the hand, an “Adieu, monsieur,” from me, and from him a 
quiet “ Au re voir.” 


MANUSCRIPT XII. 

OTHER DAYS COME BACK TO ME WITH RECOLLECTED MUSIC. 

Once more, after twelve years, I was in the same country and 
city as Stewart Claverhouse, and likely to encounter him at any 
hour. 

Can you understand or analyze the contradiction and conflict of 
my feelings towards this man? Can you understand how I at once 
longed and dreaded to meet him, longed with an intense longing, 
dreaded with an intense dread — of w T hat? I knew not, save that 
years ago something dark and horrible had coiled itself serpent-like 
round my heart, and grown with my growth, lived with and in my 
life, till it seemed to have gigantic shape, like a curse, yet I had nev- 
er longed so much to see him, to touch his hand, to hear again the 
sound of his voice, to know — ah, to know at last what it was that 
ever had been between us. I must go to him soon if he did not 
come to me. 

One day I was sitting in the library alone, reading, for the twen- 
tieth time, Macaulay’s “Battle of Lake Regillus.” My back was 
towards the door, and I was so absorbed in the poem that I scarcely 
heard, and certainly did not notice, the door open, and a servant’s 
voice saying something. I answered “ Yes ” absently, and went on 
reading ; but the next minute I felt the 4ime curious sensation of 
Ms presence that I had felt so often in our boyhood. It made me 
lay down the book, though with an impatient F ‘ Peste — I won't turn 
round!” but the impulse was too irresistible, and I rose hastily and 
turned round to see a tall, dark, grave man standing there as mo- 
tionless as a statue, more perfect far in his grand beauty than any 


OTHER DAYS COME BACK TO ME, 


61 


statue that was ever chiselled. I stood gazing on him for a moment 
like one spellbound, and in that second’s stillness a feather might 
have fluttered to the floor and been heard. 

“ Do you not know me, Casper?” 

“ Not know Stewart Claverhouse?” 

Our hands met, and I drew him forward to my own reading-chair. 

“ Of all those I have ever known, Stewart, you are the man I have 
most wished, most longed, to see again.” 

He looked surprised, but only said, 

“I am very glad, for I feared I might be intruding; nor should I 
have called now, but that the doctor told me you had expressed a 
wish to see me. ” 

Deeper, more full and rich, but the very soft musical voice as of 
yore, the same gentle, winning manner, the same inexpressible grace 
and charm which had fascinated me long ago — matured, changed in 
much, but for all it was the same grave melancholy face and eyes 
that had haunted me from the first moment I saw him; the same 
Stewart, save for the difference of years that had changed the youth 
into the bearded man. He looked older, too, than he was, by nearly 
three years. 

“You cannot intrude,” I said. “In truth, I should have gone to 
you before now, only I went down to my brother at Dover; and, be- 
sides, great men like il gran’ maestro are not so accessible as we 
ev< mortals. ” 



“You rank yourself among them, then?” 

“Why not?” answered I, lightly. “Never fear, I’ll be famous 
enough some day, yet. ” 

“ An equivocal speech, isn’t it? But now, Wolfgang, can you tell 
me anything of some of our old school-fellows?” 

“ Well, which of them? I have been a good deal out of England 
myself.” 

“I used to like some three or four of them very well,” said Claver- 
house. “ What has become of Gus Seymour and Tom Dacre?” 

“ Both are in London. The former married this three years.” 

“ What are they doing? Gus used to talk of the Bar.” 

“ He stuck to it, and is getting on rapidly.” 

“ That is— rapidly for the Bar,” interposed the sculptor, smiling. 

“No, not exactly; he is really very clever, extremely clever, and 
has a very pretty little fortune of his own, let alone what he calls a 
‘ tail/ otherwise friends at court — viz., two large firms of attorneys, 
who are interested in his family, one way or another, and they have 
taken him by the hand. Besides, about a year ago he rather distin- 
guished himself in a criminal trial — great forgery case. Oh, Gus is 
a lucky dog!” 

“Iam glad of it. He a fine, generous-hearted fellow, and de- 
serves success. I shall find him out. Now tell me of wild, witty 
Tom Dacre. Which was right in their prophecy of him — you or 
I?” 

“I don’t remember to what you allude, Bonnet-rouge,” said I. 

“ That old name. Why, you used to say that he was one of those 


62 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


clever, witty, moneyed fellows who would never do anything. I nev- 
er thought so. I always said he would make an object— work ; his 
mind was too active to idle through life, moneyed though he was. ” 

“Well, by Jove! you were right,” exclaimed I, laughing. “He 
sowed his wild oats, like the rest of us. Why do you smile, Stewart? 
— just that odd smile of yours that used to puzzle me.” 

“Never mind, Casper, go on; what did Tom da then?” 

“ Well, by Jove! he pulled up and buckled to in good earnest, and 
threw himself into politics, active and busy as the best of them. He 
can write and speak well, too, in his clever, pithy, witty way. Fal- 
conbridge swears by him. Tom often speaks of you.” 

“I shall see him. Do you know what has become of that great 
bullying fellow?” 

“That you once thrashed?” 

“Ay, the same.” 

“Oh, he’s gone to the dogs entirely. Kept a racing stud, got 
cheated, took to betting, married a girl who bolted with his groom. 
Then he took to drinking, was sold up, and sunk out of our sphere 
entirely. Tom did tell me that he had heard that he got kicked to 
death by a horse, but it mayn’t have been him ; vicious chap— never 
forgot that thrashing.” 

‘ ‘ Let him pass, and tell me of yourself,” said Claverhouse. ‘ ‘ Find- 
ing you still living with your mother, I infer that you are still un- 
married.” 

“Yes, still free; my own master,” I said; “and so are you, or we 
should have heard of it. No fair Italian has, I suppose, been able to 
captivate you? What armor of proof are you cased in, Stewart?” 

“ I may retort the question.” 

“ Oh, 1— I really don’t know. I’ve been in love a dozen times, at 
least, but never yet met: the right lady, I suppose,” said I, giving the 
fire a poke. “Have you come at last to make your headquarters in 
your native city with your uncle?” 

“Not my headquarters,” 

“But you have fitted up a studio in your house?” 

“Yes, because I shall remain here all the summer and autumn, 
and then, like the swallow, fly to the south to winter.” 

“I say, Claverhouse, it strikes me that Doctor John enjoys your 
fine old hall and handsome town-house more thap you do— every- 
thing but yourself.” 

“Perdona, since I made him give up his school I have been much 
with the old man, or rather, he with me, for he came to me abroad. 
He was with me ip America, too.” 

“ He is fond of travelling, thep, eyep now?” 

“He was till the last two years, but sipce then he prefers quiet.” 

“Whereas you are as restless as ever,” laughed I. “I wonder you 
will giye us your company for so long as six paonths.” 

He laughed too, and answered, 

“ I have work in hand that will keep me.” 

“I say, Stewart,” said I, suddeply, “wherever did you pick up 
that lovely model of yours — Fiora di Maria, that Proyenpale?” 


OTHER DAYS COME RACK TO ME. 


63 


Claverhouse gave me one of his quiet searching looks. “I picked 
her up in Rome.” 

“Just where I saw her — at the Colosseum. I had a long talk 
with her, quite a yarn, indeed; and you— the child thinks there is no 
one like the Signor Maestro. She would canonize you, I think.” 

“No, I think she has too good an opinion of me.” 

“ Ha, ha! deeper villain better saint,” said I. “ Well, I don’t think 
there is much of the saint, then, about you. Now, come up stairs 
with me, and let me introduce you to my mother and cousin. I 
suppose you don’t remember Nina, as you only saw her once, and 
that when she was seven years old.” 

“ I remember her.” 

Long afterwards, cursing the hour I ever crossed his path, I re- 
membered that quiet answer. Even then I glanced back at him; 
but his was a proud and very reserved face, and I could not read it. 

When I opened the drawing-room door my mother was leaning 
back in an immense easy-chair, reading, I think, the last new novel; 
while, half sitting, half reclining, on the rug, was Nina, one little hand 
caressing or teasing Colin, the beautiful water-spaniel I had given 
her as a child, the other arm thrown round the brown head of my 
old favorite pointer, Don. 

“Mother, I have brought an old friend,” I began, and Nina sprung 
up hastily, while Georgine rose, and the dogs came fawning round 
Stewart. “My school fellow, Stewart Claverhouse; my mother, my 
cousin Nina Lennox.” 

“Let me welcome Mr. Claverhouse as an old acquaintance by 
public and private hearsay,” said Georgine, offering her hand; “ my 
son has spoken of you so often that you seem no stranger.” 

“ And to me, in truth, you are none,” said Nina, holding out her 
hand in her frank, innocent way. ‘ ‘ I may claim an old acquaint- 
ance, unless you have forgotten that ride with Cas and me.” 

“ No, Miss Lennox, I have not; it was a most pleasant ride.” 

“ Have you still got that magnificent black mare?” said I. 

“ Ayesha? She is alive, but superannuated now at Ernescliffe. I 
have an Ayesha the second, and she is the mother over again — as 
great a beauty in every way.” And as he spoke he stooped to caress 
the dogs. “ Are these yours, Miss Lennox?” 

“Only the spaniel. Cas gave him to me years ago. Don is 
Casper’s. ” 

“You seem fond of dogs, Mr. Claverhouse,” said my mother. 
“May I ask when you did this?” And she took from a small table 
an exquisite statuette of a Newfoundland dog, for which she had re- 
cently given a large price. 

“I did that, madame, two years ago, and the original is probably 
at present lying in my studio. ” He said this as he rose to go, and 
my mother gave me an imploring look. I knew hers and Nina’s 
long-standing wish, and I said, laughingly, 

“Stewart, my mother has long had a great wish to visit your 
studio, if visitors are ever admitted.” 

“Madame and her friends will be welcome whenever they choose 


64 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


to do me the honor,” he answered, in his courteous, graceful man- 
ner, and took leave. I went down with him to the hall. 

“ Signor Scultore, I hope I have not trespassed too far in my re- 
quest?” 

“No, certainly not, Casper; I am glad you spoke.” 

“ What day and hour will best suit you?” 

“ Any day and any hour between two and four. If I am out, my 
Italian servant Luigi will attend you.” 

“ I hope you will be at home yourself. Till then, good-by.” 

I went back to the library and sat down. It was over. I had 
seen him again. Pleased I was, very pleased, but above all there 
was a sense of relief that showed me for the first time the phantom 
that in part had made me so dread him. What was it that had 
lifted the weight? He had forgotten his promise given to Nina 
twelve years ago — taut mieux ; it was given only for a trifle, only to 
a child. How should the bearded man remember the boy’s promise? 
He had forgotten it. 


CHAPTER IV. 
il angelo’s only friend. 

A tall man in a felt hat came swinging along the broad pave- 
ment of Square, and stopping at one of the handsome houses, 

knocked— a short^ steady, determined knock that commanded atten- 
tion. It was characteristic of the man, and he got instant attention, 
as he generally did. Guy de Cavagnac was not one to be easily 
gainsaid. 

“ Is Mr. Claverhouse at home?” 

“No, sir; he is out riding with the doctor.” 

“Do you know when he will return?” 

“I really can’t say, sir; but Luigi will know.” 

Cavagnac walked into the hall. 

“Will you be kind enough to summon Luigi, then? for I must 
see your master.” 

The man obeyed, and in two minutes there appeared a very good- 
looking Italian between thirty and forty. 

The count drew his hat lower, and said, in his pure Tuscan, 

‘ ‘ Hush ! and show me to the maestro’s own room. ” 

The man started, looked earnestly at him, and drawing a long 
breath, led the way quickly up - stairs to a splendid library which 
opened from his master’s studio. 

There he shut the door with hands that actually trembled, and his 
voice shook, as he said, almost fearfully, 

“Can I be mistaken? Holy Madonna! he was murdered! yet — 
is it the Signor Guido?” 

Cavagnac threw off his hat, and held out his hand. 

“Not murdered, but alive, Luigi Padella— myself in very truth.” 


IL ANGELO S ONLY FRIEND. 


65 


Luigi clasped the slender hand, covering it with kisses, in the im- 
pulsive warmth of his Southern nature, till Guy gently drew it away, 
touched and wondering to find affection where he had hardly ex- 
pected recognition ; wondering the more because, in his restless life, 
he had known so little of it; neither giving nor receiving love or af- 
fection, save to the one friend of his earlier manhood — Stewart 
Claverhouse. 

‘ ‘ Hush, Luigi mio, leave me here till, the maestro returns, and 
then only tell him that a person is waiting here to see him.” 

“ Si, signor.” 

And Luigi retired. 

But Guy de Cavagnac turned to the mantle-piece, resting his head 
on his hands against it as motionless as the statues in the room; and 
so time passed on unheeded, till at last the quiet opening and 
closing of the door caught an ear that scarcely any feeling or 
, suffering could rob of its acuteness, and he turned. Fourteen 
years had rolled between them. Fourteen years had one mourned 
the other as dead; and clinging to his memory with the steadfast 
faith of a woman, loved no other man save that first and last friend 
of his boyhood. Fourteen years ago they had parted; and now the 
two men stood, for full a minute, face to face in a silence so intense 
that it hummed round them like the hum of summer insects. Then 
the younger stretched out both his hands, and the elder, locking 
them in an iron clasp, bowed his face upon them, silent still, sick 
with such emotion as even Stewart could not guess. 

“ Guido, car’ amico mio, it seems like a dream — too bright to last. 
Fourteen years is long to mourn. ” 

The Italian lifted his face, and his dark eyes were full of remorse- 
ful tears. 

“Oh, Stewart, Stewart, forgive me! I have come back to you at 
last, weary, weary; absence became intolerable. Many a time I 
have been near you, ay, near enough to touch you, but I dared not 
come back. I should not now, save that something stronger than 
myself impelled me to return — an impulse that possessed me, heart 
and soul, from the moment I heard that child speak of you and call 
you by the old familiar name I had given you in your boyhood, be- 
cause your name was strange to my Southern tongue. I could not 
bear it. I knew then that I must see you. Oh, Angelo, can you 
forgive me?” 

“ I can only feel that it is Guido’s hand I hold,” said the sculptor, 
gently. “ Amico mio, it should have been before; I could not harm 
you .” 

The Italian looked into the deep-gray eyes, and shook his head 
with that anxious, sorrowful smile of his. 

“No, Stewart; but I might harm you.” 

“You? Impossible.” 

“Not willingly, God knows; I would die first!” said Guido, al- 
most passionately; “but there are things over which man has no 
power.” 

“ Tell me how you could harm me, old friend.” 

5 


66 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


“God forbid!” said Cavagnac, almost recoiling. “Ask me noth- 
ing, Angelo ; it is enough that the dread of it has kept me away all 
these years.” 

“It must do so no more, Guido.” 

“No more; neither of us could bear it a second time,” the other 
said under his breath. 

There was a silence, which the sculptor at last broke. 

“ Then you escaped the banditti?” 

“Si, after three months’ horrible captivity.” 

** In all these long fourteen years where have you been? What 
have you done?” 

“ Where have I not been? What have I not done?” answered the 
other, wearily. “I have been in perils by sea, in perils by land, 
struggling often for bare life. I have been in the secret police of 
Paris and Vienna, and can always fall back upon it; for the detect- 
ive instinct is strong in me, and I was their right hand. I have 
been all over the world, I may say, and served many peoples and 
languages. It was nothing to me that much was useless, impolitic, 
sure of failure. I was employed to do certain work, and I did it. 
In the end, by a hair’s-breadth, I saved myself and the papers which 
would have sent the half of them to the scaffold. I have served 
Poles in Poland, and, thanks to the stupidity of one of them, I was 
never nearer losing my head. I was taken, tried, and though they 
had no proofs against me and could not wring a word from me, I 
was condemned to death. I could say too truly, ‘ Save me from my 
friends, and I will take care of my enemies;’ but, like you, I am, 
and have been for many years, a Freemason; and, thanks to that 
fact, I succeeded in making my escape the very night before my ex- 
ecution. I have faced death a hundred times, and as near as that, 
but I never stood a better chance of being beheaded. Not that I 
care,” he said, with a quiet, dare-devil recklessness very characteris- 
tic of the man. “It is my trade to cast my life on the hazard and 
play it against death.” 

“A losing game in the long-run. Now listen, Guido, and answer 
truly. Are you in want of money at present?” 

“ If I were, caro mio, I should not be here now.” 

‘ ‘ Guido, Guido, for shame ; you are evading—” 

“No, it is truth. I am a rolling stone that has gathered some 
moss. Besides, I am here at present in a detective character — secret- 
ly, of course.” 

“Whom are you seeking, if I may ask? You know you are safe 
with me.” 

“ As the grave. I am tracking a man, a regular Communist, whom 
twelve years ago I hunted down in England and arrested here for 
forgery, which was only part of his offence. He was sent to the 
travaux-forces, but three years after he escaped.” 

“Could not you find him at all?” 

“ They could not, and I personally never tried ; for I had left their 
service, and was far enough away from la belle France. I think his 
existence was almost forgotten, till just lately we had information 


IL ANGELO’S ONLY FRIEND. 


67 


that he was, or will soon be, in London, hatching a dangerous con- 
spiracy against the French Government, in connection with Nihilists; 
and here am I really to watch, get proofs, and unearth ce beau mon- 
sieur la and his precious schemes.” 

“ Do you think you will succeed?” 

“ If I do not they may send me to the bagno instead of him,” said 
the detective, coolly. 

“And what are you ostensibly?” asked the sculptor, smiling at the 
answer. 

Guido shrugged his shoulders. “ I am M. le Comte de Cavagnac, 
an Italian refugee, if they will, bearing a French title: comprenez 
vous?” 

“ Oui, M. le Comte; but to me you are always Guido.” 

“Ay, Angelo, always Guido di Schiara to you.” 

He paused, and then said in another tone, “ Luigi knew me, so tell 
him that I have reasons for bearing another name. But your uncle 
— can you trust him?” 

“As myself. He must know that the Count de Cavagnac is my 
only friend, Guido di Schiara.” 

“Ehbien, your wish is mine, amico mio.” And the gentle smile 
that was the shadow of the sculptor’s, lightened the bronzed, care- 
worn face. “ I never could gainsay II Angelo.” 

“I will fetch the old man, then,” said Claverhouse, as he left the 
room. 

The Italian rose and looked in the large mirror over the mantle- 
piece, then turned hurriedly from it. 

‘ ‘ Another trial, ” he muttered. ‘ * Gran’ Dio, if — ” 

The door opened, and Stewart came in again with Doctor John. 

“My uncle, Dr. Fantony; M. le Comte de Cavagnac,” said Claver- 
house. “ That is in public. Between us, privately, he is a man who 
was lost and is found again, whom for fourteen years I have mourned 
as dead — my old and only friend, Guido di Schiara.” 

The old man held out his hand. “ Whom my boy loves is my 
friend,” he said, with his grandly simple sincerity; and Guido Schi- 
ara bent, in deep and silent reverence, over that hand. 

“Have you been long in England, count?” the doctor added. 

“No, monsieur; I came to London a few days ago.” 

Doctor John started as the voice struck his ear, and gave a quick 
earnest glance from the Italian to the sculptor ; but he only remarked, 

“You are the second old friend Stewart has come across lately.” 

“Am I?” He glanced at Claverhouse, and smiled. “Have I a 
rival, then, Angelo?” 

The sculptor shook his head. 

“No; that is only fa<?on de parler — an acquaintance, school-fel- 
low, no more. Casper Yon Wolfgang is no friend of mine.” 

“Him? No, impossible. ” 

“What! you know him?” 

Cavagnac laughed. 

‘ ‘ A great deal better than he knows me. I first met him twelve 
years ago. I met him again in the train from Dover.” 


68 BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 

“Tell us the whole story, Guido,” said Stewart; “it is amusing, 
for you have that old mediant laugh in your eyes; so let us hear it.” 

So Cavagnac told the story of his odd acquaintance with Wolf- 
gang with a quiet humor, under which lay a deep vein of sarcasm 
that could be stingingly bitter and keen— a terrible weapon when its 
possessor chose to use it. 

Doctor John said, with a little amused smile, “I fear, count, that 
my former pupil has not prepossessed you in his favor.” 

“ Dr. Fantony, I will answer you frankly. I know young Wolf- 
gang too slightly to judge him entirely. He is passionate, impetu- 
ous, jealous-tempered, and conceited. He has, no doubt, much good 
and many fine points; but whatever they may be, there is in him 
some vein that is in strong antagonism to my being. I feel towards 
him that intense, unaccountable distrust, in which I have never yet 
been mistaken, and, mark my words, he will justify it some day.” 

“God forbid!” said the old man, emphatically; “yet,” he added, 
“Stewart has felt the same antagonism, and — but let it pass now. 
Stewart, let us adjourn to your studio.” 

“ If you wish it.” 

And the sculptor led the way. 


MANUSCRIPT XIII. 

THE SCULPTOR’S STUDIO, AND HOW IL ANGELO REDEEMED HIS 

PROMISE. 

I have set myself a task, and I must accomplish it, but it is tort- 
ure. I shrink from it, from what, in its accomplishment, must come 
with miserable horror; looking back, it is like an awful dream. 
Dante said that he found his “ Inferno” in the world around him. 
I have found mine within me. But enough ; let me go on. 

It was a bright day when I took my mother and Nina to 

Square to visit the great sculptor’s studio. 

We were shown, of course, to a most elegant drawing-room, where 
we had not long to wait, when the door opened, admitting a fine- 
looking Italian, over thirty years, whom I guessed to be the confi- 
dential servant mentioned by the doctor. He begged us to follow 
him to the studio, where the signor would be happy to see us; and 
he led the way up a wide staircase, along a gallery, and into an ante- 
room. Here our guide threw open a noiseless door, drew back a 
crimson velvet curtain, and ushered us into the studio itself. 

There were three people in it, Claverliouse and Doctor John, who 
immediately rose to receive us ; and — yes — that man again, the strange 
Italian, whom I now met for the fourth time under a name he had 
coolly admitted was not his own. I bowed, and Stewart introduced 
him to Georgine and Nina as “ the Count de Cavagnac, an old friend 
of his own.” 

But let me pause. 


THE SCULPTOR’S STUDIO. 


69 


Do you know that peculiar hushed stillness of a sculpture-room 
that makes it seem like sacrilege to speak above a whisper? — so calm 
and still, so grandly lifeless the marble, that in its presence life is 
hushed, as in the presence of something holy — the holiness of Art? 

Shall I ever forget Nina’s face as she stood in the centre of the 
room, drinking in the beauty round her, her hands locked, her lips 
half open, rapt, entranced. I glanced round, and saw the sculptor 
quietly watching'her. The next moment I shivered; for, as I with- 
drew my eyes, I caught the keen, distrustful gaze of that dark, guile- 
ful Italian fixed on me, and my old hatred and fear of the man swept 
over me with tenfold force. I turned my attention resolutely to the 
sculpture and the room. It was lighted from above, and hung with 
crimson velvet, which threw the statuary out in strong relief, and 
made its whiteness almost dazzling. At one side was a boudoir 
grand piano in a handsome mahogany case, and beside it was spread 
a magnificent leopard-skin, in which lay a gigantic black Newfound- 
land dog, with his large observant eye watching us all, though he 
never moved; for I saw Stewart lift his finger to him. 

How shall I describe the works of art, each one of which was a 
laurel on his brow; many strange and fanciful in idea, but each so 
lovely in conception, so perfect in execution! How time passed I 
know not; but I found myself at last standing with Nina before a 
group, not small — for no figure was under four feet high — but the 
gem of all, the pearl of greatest price. It might have been called 
‘ ‘ A wreck, ” literally and allegorically. 

On a rough rocky shore lay a broken mast or spar, with a piece of 
torn rope still fastened to it, and near it on one side, as if flung there 
by the wild sea, lay tire corpse of a beautiful woman, clasping with 
her right arm her dead child, whose delicate little form the pitiless 
waves had left almost nude. Exquisite was the contrast of those 
two faces; the peaceful, holy calm of the child’s, the agony and 
wild terror on the mother’s locked dead face — the look it had worn 
in her fearful struggle for life. 

There were yet two other figures, the corpse of a man in the very 
prime of his manhood and noble beauty, drowned in saving the 
woman he loved; the slender, nervous hands locked about her slight 
form with a force that had made every muscle stand out, arid the 
fine head thrown back, resting against her with a half-smile still on 
his lips, the smile with which, perhaps, he had looked up in her face 
and died ; and she, that young fragile girl ! I felt myself start and 
flush painfully; for she had Nina’s face and beauty, but with such a 
look as hers must surely never wear — half crouching by, half clinging 
to the dead, one small hand putting back the hair from the calm brow, 
the other pressed on the silent heart, seeking in vain for one throb of 
the life that is stilled forever. There was passionate agony in the 
action, in every line of the figure, and in that beautiful face such 
hopeless, awful despair as few ever witness; the marble had life — the 
terrible life of a broken heart. 

Was that all? No; the master-mind and hand had put the last 
perfect touch which made the grand work faultless. There was yet 


70 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


another mourner, a Newfoundland dog, standing half on his mis- 
tress’s disordered robe, with one paw laid on his dead master’s breast, 
and his face lifted to the girl’s with such a human look of sympathy, 
grief, and wistful appeal as we see perhaps only in a faithful dog. 

How long I stood before that wonderful picture-sculpture I do 
not know, but when at last I turned it was to glance at Nina. Did 
she see the likeness? I could not tell. Her face wore the same rapt 
expression, though now her dark eyes were suffused with tears. 

My mother’s voice behind her addressing the sculptor jarred on 
her ear, and brought her abruptly back from the dream-world of 
Art. 

“The work is perfect, but what gave you the model for this 
mourner?’ 1 

“Only memory, madame,” answered Stewart’s quiet soft voice. 

I turned irresistibly, and glanced at him. Had I been mistaken? 
If he had remembered her so well, could he have forgotten that 
promise, simple trifle as it seemed? In that moment I cursed him 
— cursed the hour we two had ever met. I do so now; for in that 
hour a devil had entered into my soul. 

My mother remarked, “ The original of this noble dog I see on 
that leopard’s skin; what is his name?” 

“ Fidelio, madame ; a name he earned.” As he spoke he rose, 
and came up to the group we formed; and hearing his name the 
dog came to him, pushing his nose into his master’s hand. 

Nina knelt down to caress him, and was affectionately received; 
for Fidelio put his great paw on her arm, and licked her face. My 
mother laughed. 

“That child is always making friends with dogs. I tell her she 
will get bitten or hurt some day.” 

Stewart looked down on the girl and dog, and answered with that 
beautiful smile I had never hated till now, 

“No dog will ever harm the signorina; they know by instinct 
those who love them.” 

“Just what I say,” said I, bending to stroke the noble animal. 
To my surprise and annoyance, he raised his head, looked fixedly in 
my face, then in his master’s, and whined uneasily ; but on my again 
offering to touch him he uttered a low, deep growl, though he was 
silent the moment Stewart raised his reproving finger. I glanced 
nervously towards Cavagnac. I could not help it, nor the shudder 
w T hich ran through me, when for the second time I met his deep fell 
gaze. 

“ Claverhouse, you should whip that animal for his ill-manners,” 
said I, with what I meant for an easy laugh. 

“I never whip Fidelio,” he answered, gravely. 

“Why not, in wonder’s name?” 

“Because, Casper, five years ago I was shipwrecked on the Amer- 
ican coast, and he saved my life. How could I strike him after 
that?” 

I lifted my hand to cover a sneer, but Nina said, warmly, “Of 
course not ! You could not be guilty of such shameful ingratitude !” 


THE SCULPTOR’S STUDIO. 


n 


My mother asked in her suave, somewhat sulky manner, 

“ Then, Mr. Claverhouse, this sad story here has truth for its foun- 
dation?” 

“ Yes, madame.” 

“ And, if I may ask, for what great art gallery is this extraordina- 
ry sculpture destined?” 

“ For none.” 

“What! none? What is the Art world about to let it stay here, 
Signor Maestro?” 

“ Nay, you and my friend Cavagnac are the only people, besides 
my uncle, who know of its existence.” 

“ I am astonished. Was it not, then, executed for any one?” 

The sculptor smiled. 

“ Yes, madame; for a lady.” 

“How I envy her! Do tell me who she is. Some foreigner of 
rank, for only a Pitti Palace ought to receive that” 

“ She is only an English lady, Madame Yon Wolfgang, to whom, 
when I was a boy and she a little child, I gave a promise, which I 
hope she will consider I have redeemed ” — he turned to Nina, bend- 
ing low — “in begging her to do me the honor to accept this sculpt- 
ure.” 

My soul seemed on fire, and something within me — all, perhaps, 
that was good— seemed to stand still, and then snap asunder forever. 
I can see even now Nina’s face of wonder, and hear her half-hurried 
words, 

“For me? I was only a child— and you have remembered such 
a trifle so long?” 

“Not a trifle, Miss Lennox. I had passed my word, and I have 
only redeemed the pledge given.” 

Redeemed it! Yes, nobly indeed, as I might have known he 
would. The gift was like himself — splendidly graceful. Nina had 
no words, but her thanks had a far deeper language than all my 
mother’s profuse expressions; for Nina simply held out her little 
hand with a tremulous smile, and in silence the great sculptor bent 
over it, slightly touching it with his lips in his graceful foreign 
fashion. 

Then he turned to Georgine. 

“ I will have the sculpture removed to madame’s house to-morrow, 
if that pleases her.” 

“Nay; when you please, Mr. Claverhouse,” answered Georgine, 
rising, to my great relief; “we are ready to receive it.” 

“ Grazie, to-morrow, then,” and he touched the bell. The same 
attendant, Luigi, came in, and Stewart said, 

“Luigi, will you cover that group again? and to-morrow let it be 
removed to Monsieur Yon Wolfgang’s house. You know where it is?” 

“ Si, signor.” 

Luigi threw over the group a large veil of fine Indian silk, and 
retired. 

“ A handsome fellow that,” said I. “ If I may ask, Stewart, what 
rank in your house does he hold? for he looks far above a servant.” 


72 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“He is not a servant. Luigi Padella is my friend and compan- 
ion. He is everything— attendant, courier, and foreman of my work- 
men, for he was bred a mason. Luigi is, in fine, my right hand. I 
could not do without him.” 

“You give him a high character,” said I, laughing. “I shall 
steal him from you. ” 

“Beyond your power, Casper; beyond even that of Cavagnac 
there, who is Luigi’s second love,” he answered; and then exchang- 
ing adieus, we took our leave. 

Nina was very quiet during the drive ; but my mother would 
turn into the Park, and could talk of nothing else but Claverhouse, 
Dr. Fan tony, the wonders of the studio, and that Italian. 

“ Pray walk the ponies, Casper,” she said, “ and tell me who he is. 
Is Cavagnac his name?” 

And I must endure it, while I felt internally on fire. 

“ No, of course not, mother; he is an Italian — probably a refugee.” 

I fancied I saw Nina shake her head to herself doubtfully; but 
before I could speak, a very different thing and voice close to the 
phaeton made me start and pull up. 

“Ah, monsieur, bon jour! il y a longtemps que je ne vous ai vu! 
je vous salue et les dames aussi.” 

“ Anna de Provence!” I exclaimed, “ and in London!” 

“The original of the famous ‘Fiora di Maria, n’est ce pas?’” said 
Nina, leaning forward. 

“Oui, mademoiselle; I sat for it.” 

“And have you got a statuette of it? Let me look. Let me see 
what you have. Casper, give me your purse; I’ve forgotten mine, 
and — Ah, look there!” She pointed suddenly with her hand, and 
I turned to see a fine Calabrian wolf-hound bound to Anna’s side. 
“ What a beauty! Is it yours?” 

“ Si, signorina.” 

“You did not have him that day at the Colosseum, Anna-Marie,” 
said I, touching the dog. 

The hound growled slightly; and though Anna instantly bade 
him “Silence, Corsare!” I saw her face change, and she gave me a 
quick, keen, I thought distrustful, look; but the next second the 
mobile Southern face was smiling again as she answered me, 

“ He was not far off that day, monsieur — within my call.” 

“ And what do you think of London, Fleur-de-Marie?” 

“It is a great city, monsieur; grand, large, but not beautiful.” 

“It is very busy, though, Anna — full of life.” 

“Si, signor; of life — and solitude.” 

One of her quiet, sad answers. I said, after a pause, 

“Do you know that your friend, II gran’ Maestro, is in London?” 

“I have seen him, monsieur, merci.” 

“Eh bien! Mother, have you chosen— and Nina?” 

They had selected two statuettes, and three Roman cameos, real 
ones, for which Nina gave all the loose gold in my purse, despite 
Anna’s assurance that “the statuettes were only a bagatelle, quatre 
francs, and les camei were only sept livres.” Nina only smiled, and 


HOW CAVAGNAC EMPLOYED ANNA DE LAYAL. 


73 


kissed her hand mischievously as I drove on with a “bon voyage, 
Anna.” 

When I looked back again the Proven9ale and her dog were gone. 


CHAPTER Y. 

HOW CAVAGNAC EMPLOYED ANNA DE LAVAL. 

Casper Yon Wolfgang had not misread Anna de Laval’s look 
when her dog, as Stewart’s had done, received his caress with a 
growl, and Corsare’s nature was so friendly and gentle, save when 
his mistress was molested, that from him a growl in return for a ca- 
ress was an event, and the child stood there long, pondering and 
thinking. 

“ Corsare, mon camarade,” she said at last, shaking her beautiful 
head, “ tu as raison.” 

“Ma cli&re enfant, what are you thinking of?” said a soft voice, 
and a hand was laid lightly on her shoulder. “You are lost in 
dreams; that will never make your fortune, pretty one.” 

The cameo-seller looked up in Cavagnac’s handsome face, and 
said, with a quiet desolation that touched him to the quick, 

“ I wish I was dead — s’il plait a Dieu.” 

“Anna, my child, you pain me deeply; that is no wish for fifteen 
years.” 

“ Perhaps not, monsieur; but I am alone in the world.” 

“So am I, Anna. I have tossed about for more than twenty 
years — since I was a lad. I have lost all, but I have seldom, if ever, 
felt a wish to die.” 

“Ah, but monsieur is a man, strong, and able to battle with the 
world, to rise above fate and adversity, moi, je ne suis qu’une fille,” 
said the child, with a deep, sad pathos, of which she was evidently 
unconscious. 

Something in the plaintive voice thrilled through Guido Scliiara 
as it had never done before ; and as he looked down on the delicate 
patrician face and form he shuddered to think of the utter friend- 
lessness of this girl, whose refined training and extreme beauty were 
perhaps her worst enemies. He turned from her and paced to and 
fro for a few minutes; but catching her wistful, troubled glance, he 
stopped again — 

“The Signor Angelo is your friend, mon enfant?” 

The cameo-seller shook her head. 

“He is generous, noble, my life is at his feet; but how can the 
cameo-seller dare to call the great sculptor her friend? The distance 
between them is too great.” 

“ Yet he is your friend. If you were in trouble, Anna, you know 
that he would wish you to come to him.” 

“ Monsieur, he has done so much for me already that I could not 
trouble him with my sorrows.” 


74 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ My child, I understand and honor your feelings, but you know 
him too well not to know that nothing would pain him more than 
to hear you say that.” 

The Proven9ale’s head drooped, and her dark ej'es filled, but she 
only answered, “ I cannot help it, monsieur ; he shall not hear me 
say it.” 

“Yet he will know it, Anna; words are not always needed. Has 
he never before now drawn from you more than you meant?” 

“Often, but I never care then. What the signor does must be 
right, ” said the child, innocently. 

“ Oh, woman, woman,” murmured Cavagnac, “when wilt thou 
cease to worship?” But aloud he said, “ He is perfect, then, in your 
eyes, Anna. II Angelo in very truth.” 

“Si; to me he is, because, whatever his faults, I have never seen 
them.” 

“By Heaven! nor have I,” said Guido Schiara, strongly. “Yet 
even he has enemies— who has not? and the great and famous more 
than any.” 

“Monsieur, it is the tax which the great pay to le diable.” 

“ C’est 9a.” 

Once more he paced to and fro ; but when he again stopped, his 
question was of another kind. 

“ Fleur-de-Marie, who was that you were speaking to before I 
came up — the man in the phaeton?” 

“ I do not know who he is, monsieur. I met him first at Rome. 
He is more than half an atheist ;” and the Proven9ale shrugged her 
shoulders with an expression half of pity, half of contempt. Cav- 
agnac laughed. 

“He is somewhat handsome, eh? — half English, half creole-look- 
ing.” 

“ Monsieur knows him?” 

“ Yes; shall I tell you his name, Anna?” 

“If monsieur pleases.” 

“It is — remember it well, Anna — Casper St. Leger Yon Wolf- 
gang.” 

“ I shall not forget it; but, monsieur — ” 

“ What, my child?” 

“ Why am I to remember his name so well?” 

“Because,” said Guido Schiara, with a sudden bright gleam in 
his dark eyes that would have made Casper shrink — “ because, Anna 
de Laval, he is II Angelo’s enemy.” 

“ Madre di Dio! then I am his to the death!” said the Proven9ale, 
energetically. 

“Give me your hand on that, Anna,” said Cavagnac. 

She gave it him, and the touch of that little soft hand, as it lay in 
his strong grasp, thrilled through the man as her voice had done 
only a short while before. 

He held it a minute, and then dropping it, said, 

“ Now, listen, Anna-Marie; for if you are willing to do it, I have 
employment for you that could only be done by such a close, faith- 


THE STRANGER WHO BOUGHT A STATUETTE. 


15 


ful, keen person as you are. In your wandering life, have you ever 
served any secret society or police?” 

“ Oui, monsieur, the first, in Rome; the second, several times.” 

‘ ‘ Per Bacco ! fallen on my feet again ! I am at present engaged 
by the secret police of Paris to hunt out and watch a man who is 
believed to be in London hatching a murderous conspiracy: a wom- 
an — a girl like you — is a valuable assistant, and any information you 
bring me shall bear your own price. What say you?” 

“I am at your orders, Monsieur de Cavagnac. Who is the man, 
and what is he like?” 

“ What disguise he may wear I do not know; but his real name 
is Louis Bonlieur, and his real identity this — ” 

He took out a pocket-book, and drew from it a very good photo- 
graph of a Frenchman about forty years of age, with a rather good- 
looking but somewhat forbidding countenance. 

Anna de Laval gazed long on it, studying every feature and line. 

“I shall know Monsieur Bonheur anywhere,” she said, as she at 
last gave it back; “ but he looks no fool.” 

“ If he were I should have no trouble; as it is, I have; but I hunt- 
ed him down twelve years ago, and I shall do so again. 1 have 
never yet failed in anything I undertook — in the detective line, I 
mean. Now I must go ; so adieu, mon enfant, and remember, after 
II Angelo, to give the first place in your friendship to Guy de Cav- 
agnac. No— I will trust you— give it to Guido di Schiara.” 

“Si, signor. I could never forget the man who has trusted the 
wanderer.” And touching her lips to his hand, she turned away. 

There were heavy tears in the Italian’s dark eyes as he, too, went 
his solitary way. 

No doubt of her faith ever crossed him. Suspicious, distrustful 
as he was, the thought never entered his mind that this cameo- seller 
might play him false. He knew too well the nature he had trusted. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE STRANGER WHO BOUGHT A STATUETTE. 

Anna de Laval wandered on, offering her graceful wares to the 
passers-by; but her plaintive “Achetez, madame — bon march e,” 
only obtained mostly a negative in one form or another, a shake of 
the head, a “No, thank you,” and not infrequently a rough refusal, 
or harsh “I don’t give to beggars or tramps;” and one finely dressed 
dame said condescendingly, “ It is a pity such a nice-looking girl as 
you don’t follow some respectable trade; you ought to be ashamed 
of such a vagrant life.” The proud blood of a long line of knights 
flushed to their descendant’s fine face, and she answered, with 
haughty bitterness, “To learn a trade costs money, and I was not 
born or bred to it. ” 

No, poor child ; the ^orse for her. 


76 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Somewhere about dusk she turned, wearily enough, into one of 
the West End squares, before one of the houses of which an Italian 
organ-man had just struck up the graceful ‘ ‘ Fiance’s Waltz.” There 
were children and a lady at the window, and the Provengale, paus- 
ing, held up a statuette. But the lady shook her head, and at the 
same time opening the window, she threw out some pence to the 
man, bidding him ‘ ‘ not stop. ” 

The coins fell near the cameo-seller; she picked them up and gave 
them to the young man, whose bright, dark eyes rested in surprised 
admiration on her as he received the money. 

“ Oh, I am very much obliged to you,” he said as he slung his 
organ, and lifted his hat, with a courtly wave, to the lady. 

“A salute is more than she deserves,” said Anna, indignantly, 
and in French. “ Men are not dogs, to throw things at like that!” 

The man stared for a second, and then laughed, half amused, half 
bitterly, “ One must send all that au diable, eh — or we might starve 
— you see, camarade. Are you going my way?” 

“As well as another — yes.” 

“Ces Anglais despise us,” resumed the man, as they moved on. 
‘ ‘ They call us — I’ve heard them — idle fellows, and say, ‘ Why don’t 
those lazy organ-grinders stay at home or work at trades?’ Bah, il 
me fait rire! we cannot stop at home to starve, we are too poor to 
learn trades— que faire done?” shrugging his shoulders. “Take 
me, now; lam from Parma. Do you know Parma?” 

The cameo-seller nodded. 

“Eh bien, there was no w T ork to live by there; and my parents, 
the Madonna rest their souls! were too poor to apprentice me to 
any trade or craft, and one must live, so here I am. Et je vous dis,” 
said he, energetically, “it is hard work carrying this organ, parbleu; 
harder than ces gens la would believe! and, hot or cold, early and 
late, in rain or snow, we must be out all the same, often wet, cold, 
hungry — ” 

“ And shelterless,” added the Provengale. 

“C’est vrai — you know that, too?” 

“Ay,” said the child, quietly, “too well. My trade is very un- 
certain. The first night I was in London I slept on a door-step, 
with Corsare here for a pillow.” 

“ He is a fine dog. A portico is all the shelter I expect to get to- 
night,” he added, with a half-laugh that ended in a sigh. “I have 
had bad luck to-day, et je n’ai pas d’argent; what these Inglesi call 
hard up!” 

The Provengale quietly drew forth some silver, and putting it 
into his hand, said, in her gentle way, “ Take it, camarado mio; the 
Madonna sent me luck to-day, and I have more than enough for 
both.” 

“Eh, per Bacco!” said the astonished Parmese, offering to put it 
back, “keep it all, fanciulla, for you will need it. I am a man; it 
won’t be the first or last time I have slept out.” 

“ Nay, then, less reason to do so now.” 

“Mais— ” 


THE STRANGER WHO BOUGHT A STATUETTE. 


77 


“Basta, basta; we are compatriotes, ” said Anna-Marie, adding, 
half laughingly, “I will come to you when I am hard up, if you 
tell me your name. ” 

“ I wish you would. My name is Giovan’ Tofanni; and yours?” 

“ Anna-Marie.” 

The young man glanced at her, and said, “ It is the name, then, of 
a friend. Have you ever sat to artists?” 

“More than thirty times,” answered the cameo-seller. “Why do 
you stop? Is this one of your houses where you play?” For Gio- 
van’ had stopped and unslung his organ. 

“Yes, I get twopence here always,” he answered, and began play- 
ing, while Anna leaned against the area railings, waiting till he went 
on again. It was a quiet street, with little traffic, so that an ap- 
proaching step made the child look up just as a man drew near. 
Something indescribable about him told the foreigner, for nothing 
of him was visible save a large loose overcoat, with a high collar 
turned up, a thick brown beard, and a broad-brimmed American- 
looking hat, worn very low. He glanced at the man, at the Roman 
cameo-seller, and the statuettes on her box, and stopped. 

“I don’t know which is the most beautiful,” he said; “what 
price do you ask for this statuette?” 

“ Six sous,” said the Proven^ale, shortly, and without moving, for 
the tone and manner did not please her. 

“Hein,” said he, laying the coin on the box, and taking up the 
statuette; “you don’t know, of course, what this is meant for?” 

“Probably monsieur does not; it is II gran’ Maestro’s famous 
Madonna.” 

The man wrapped his loose coat about him, and walked swiftly 
away, just as a servant came out and gave Giovan’ twopence ; then 
a few more tunes, and the two wanderers once more moved on, still 
in company, for, despite the great difference between then, they had 
much in common; both were strangers, both homeless and friend- 
less, in a foreign land. 

“Have you been long in England?” the man asked. 

“No, not long; have you?” 

“What, me? Yes; some years, on and off,” he answered, giving 
his organ a hoist, and passing his hand under the strap which 
crossed his chest. 

“ That is painful, that strap,” said the child. “It cuts the chest.” 

“Yes. So I hold it off like this; and the organ is heavy, even 
when one is used to it.” 

“It is not your own, of course?” 

“Yes, it is; and hard work and long time it took to pay in for it; 
but, you see, I did it at last. It isn’t as good as I would have liked, 
but I could not scrape up more.” 

“How much was it, then?” 

“ One-and-twenty pounds; it is one of Cavioli et Corvi. You 
see,” said Giovan’, with a frank laugh, “if la Sainte Yierge had 
been pleased to make me un beau gargon, I could have been a 
‘ model ’ as well, m$is elle ne m’a pas donne la beaute, so I could 


78 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


not get money that way. Are those things touching her box— 
“your own?” 

“Yes, all of them; some are real camei, which I brought from 
Rome and Florence.” 

“E perche!” exclaimed Giovan’, opening his bright eyes wide; 
“ how did you manage that?” 

“By sitting for a model,” said Anna, with a mental reservation, 
which, though speaking the strict truth, kept to herself the real fact 
that the cameos were the sculptor’s parting gift. “I sold some 
to-day to a bella signora, and a few I have sold in the shops — to 
jewellers.” 

“How do you get them to believe they are real? Pour vos beaux 
yeux, eh?” 

“No; they can see for themselves, just as Cavioli or Corvi can 
tell a good organ from a bad. Why do you stop?” 

“Because I must go down this street; and you?” 

“I must go straight on. I shall not stop out late to-night.” 

“Good-night, then, camarade; we may meet again, perhaps.” 

“It is very likely; I hope we shall,” she answered. “ Au revoir,' 
Giovan’.” 

And the two wanderers parted; each went a different way; but 
that night, when the poor organ-player lay down to rest beneath the 
shelter of a roof, a fervent blessing on the child went up to Heaven 
that surely descended on her head. 

It was somewhere near eight o’clock when the cameo-seller re- 
turned to her humble room to share her simple supper with her 
faithful friend Corsare. Even if it were only a cup of water and 
crust of bread, he had his half. Sometimes it was not even that; 
but it was very rarely that Corsare went without food ; for many 
were the times that his mistress, utterly penniless, scorning to beg a 
penny for herself, had paused at a butcher’s open shop, and offered 
her prettiest statuette for a handful of bones for her dog, and she 
had never yet been refused. “La Sainte Yierge has always a care 
for the sorrowful, mon chien,”she would say, in the gentle way 
which Corsare perfectly understood and appreciated. 

But to-night there was supper for both, and Corsare would pause 
in the crunching of a fine juicy bone to look up affectionately in his 
mistress’s face, as if glad that she was eating too. He was still at 
her feet, crunching busily, when the landlady appeared at the door 
holding out a letter. 

“This come a while back, miss, ’’for so the woman instinctively 
called her patrician lodger ; ‘ ‘ leastways, it can’t mean no one else. 
A furrin chap brought it, and says he, ‘Is Madmerzel Anna in yet?’ 
‘No, ’says I, ‘she ain’t. Did you want her very pertikler?’ says I. 
So then he gave me this.” 

“ Merci bien, madame; it is for me.” 

“’Tain’t often as my lodgers gets letters now, ’’said the woman, 
curiously. 

“ Eh, why not?” asked the Proven^ale, amused. 


ARTIST, MODEL, AND SPECTATOR. 


19 


“ ’Cause, my dear, they’s poor, and got no friends. No more ain’t 
you, I s’pose?” 

“No, none. I am a foreigner and a stranger here.” 

“Maybe you’ve friends at home in furrin parts?” 

“ I have no home, madame.” 

“ There’s heaps like that, anyway,” said the woman, sighing, “ and 
a roof over one’s head ain’t always a home. Wish I hadn’t never 
married away from my home, I do often, ’’said she, as she went 
away. 

Anna-Marie opened the letter, which was in Italian, but she knew 
the bold yet delicate hand for that of the sculptor. It was only a 
few lines. 

“ To-morrow morning, Anna, go about eleven to No. 12 Street, 

and ask for Miss Lennox, the lady who was with Monsieur Yon Wolf- 
gang to-day and bought of you. She wants you to sit to her for a 
drawing. Go in your Roman dress, and take Corsare. Your friend 

“Angelo.” 

“ Corsare mio, we are going to sit to a bella signorina,” said the 
child, “so we will sleep now, amico.” 


MANUSCRIPT NIY. 

ARTIST, MODEL, AND SPECTATOR. 

I was enjoying a smoke and the last new novel in my own study 
the next morning, when in walked Miss Nina and perched herself 
on the arm of a huge easy-chair. 

“Puff, puff,” said she, saucily; “what clouds you do throw off. 
I wonder why men must smoke. I shall take to it, to keep you 
company.” 

“Try,” said I, offering her a box of choice Havanas. 

“Not yet, sir. Put down that silly book, you bad boy, and at- 
tend to me.” And her little slender hand drew it away. 

“You impudent child, you never leave me in peace, even in my 
own sanctum.” 

“Your sanctum! yours ! Ha, ha! the latest joke. Why, you 
haven’t a sanctum where I mayn’t come in and spoil your very pre- 
cious peace. Casper, you are an unmitigated humbug, a downright 
hypocrite.” 

Was I not one in very truth? I leaned forward, feigning to knock 
the ashes from my pipe, striving to master and crush the wild beat- 
ing of my heart. ‘ ‘ And what does your imperious highness want 
— a ride, a new dress, more music, or money?” 

“Now, Cas, you know that if I want money I come boldly and 
ask for a check.” 

“So you do, my dear — just as a highwayman cries ‘Stand and 


80 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


deliver;’ but I ham heard of such a thing as a young lady coolly 
emptying my purse to buy pretty trifles from a Roman cameo-seller. 
Of course you don’t know such a young lady, though.” 

She laughed gayly. 

“Here’s the money,” she said, tossing some gold to me. “Don’t 
say I don’t pay my debts. 

I threw it back. 

“You may as well keep it, Miss Nina, for it’s as broad as it’s long; 
you’ll come for more, you extravagant fairy.” 

With a sudden change of face she came and sat down on the rug, 
looking up with an expression half grave, half wistful. 

“Am I very extravagant, Casper? Do I squander your money 
too fast?” 

“My dear Nina, spend what you will, and ask me for anything 
you want. All I have is yours, ’’said I, energetically; “my great- 
est pleasure is to gratify you in everything.” 

Impulsive, quick to emotion, I saw the tears gather in her dark 
eyes, and she kissed my hand as it lay on my knee. 

“You were always too kind and good to me, Casper, and indeed 
I am grateful for it, if affection is any repayment, for I could not 
love you better if you were in very truth my brother.” 

A sudden cold chill went through me, and a mist came before my 
eyes. Was that all? Did I know now to the full one secret of my 
own heart, one object of my life, to be gained at all costs and haz- 
ards? Stewart Claverhouse had told me truly, years ago, that I had 
no ambition save that of the pleasure-seeker; but now, if I had not 
his grand ambition, I had an object which he had not. I could not 
answer her last words directly, and so turned it off. 

“Well, Fayre Una, remember you are to be as extravagant as you 
like; it’s what such fairies as you are born for.” 

“ That is what troubles me, Casper. No one is born to do noth- 
ing, to be nothing. I can understand,” she said, with a heightening 
color and dilating eyes, “the thoughts and aspirations of such men 
as Michael Angelo and Mendelssohn! ambition for one’s art! fame 
for that which we love! For such fame I could die; for such am- 
bition I could lay down everything.” 

“Nina, how you look!” exclaimed I, startled, feeling that some- 
thing in her vaulted far beyond anything that I dreamed of or un- 
derstood. ‘ ‘ Are women, too, ambitious for themselves, apart from 
the one they love?” 

‘ ‘ Ay, apart from the self-aggrandizement which too often passes 
for ambition. True ambition will not stoop to meanness or crime, 
lest it degrade itself, and the art or science or country for which it 
labors and crowns with its laurels. You,” she said, and her deep- 
blue eyes seemed actually to grow — “you, who have none, cannot 
understand or comprehend the sacrifices such ambition will make, 
or the height to which it soars. In your secret heart it awakens a 
sneer, perhaps at times a certain wonder, but no emulation; yet you 
have talents.” 

“Ay, ’’said I, with a new and strange shadow in my very heart, 


ARTIST, MODEL, AND SPECTATOR. 


81 


“but all are not born alike. I have talents, position, wealth, and a 
love of ease and pleasure, if you will. I have all I want. Why 
should I burden myself with this hydra, this weary ambition, wheth- 
er for one’s self or one’s art? I don't understand it or its pleasures. 
It is all toil and discontent, ever crying ‘ more, more, ’ even while 
mounting.” 

“There is happiness in that very element,” she answered; “in 
every upward step, in the very toil and labor, in the mere doing. 
There is happiness in overcoming, one by one, the very difficulties 
which lie in the upward road.” 

“ Your moralists tell another tale, Nina. Was Cromwell the Pro- 
tector as happy a man as Cromwell the farmer? Was Pitt the min- 
ister a happier man than if he had lived in private?” 

“Yes. To Pitt and such as he a life of obscure tranquillity is 
death. You might as well cage an eagle, and think it will be hap- 
pier because it is fed and warmed, and kept safe from the attacks of 
its enemies. Moralists sit in their studies and write a great deal of 
nonsense. It’s a mistake, too often a sickening cant, to call ambi- 
tion, in the abstract, an evil and miserable thing — a curse. Like 
most other things implanted in man by God, it is a gift, and must 
be guarded and bounded by his laws. It only sinks down and be- 
comes a curse when man abuses it. Your happiness is to lie at ease 
in the soft valley; Stewart Claverhouse’s is in climbing the mount- 
ain.” 

“ Then where is his advantage if, after all his labor, he is no hap- 
pier than I am?” 

“ Ay, but he is. God, in his wisdom, has so ordered it. Perhaps 
to you I had better say that man is so created that the highest hap- 
piness (as a rule) is attained by him who works in one form or an- 
other for others ; and as a proof of it, you see that most men of some 
position and competence, or wealth — men who could live as idle a 
life as you if they chose — most of such men, I say, make work if 
they haven’t got it. ” 

“Stop, Nina. We all know what setting one’s own tasks means 
— working in a very easy way.” 

“No, you are wrong, Casper — entirely wrong. Some take to 
farming, others to science, the arts, literature, various social subjects, 
politics, working hard, too. Take the Legislature, the upper and 
lower house: not one member of either is obliged to take on him 
that work. He gains nothing by it; no money, only more position 
and consideration.” 

“And patronage, ma’am?” said I. 

“Of course. The patronage, the consideration of his compeers, 
the occupations, form a large part of his happiness; it is a field for 
his energies, which would otherwise kill him with ennui. Man is a 
busy, working, active being; and when he is lifted above the strug- 
gles for daily bread, his restless brain turns to something else. Why, 
the House of Commons is largely, if not half, composed of men of 
fortune, who could sit idle instead of plunging into politics; and 
the rest, hard-working lawyers, mercantile men, and others living 
6 


82 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


by their hand or brain, find motives enough to make them work 
still harder. It is a pleasure in itself to work out the result of your 
own labors. It is seen in a child. Take two boys of ordinary en- 
ergy and capacity: give one a toy-ship (for example), and to the 
other materials for making one, so that he can turn out an equally 
pretty vessel — which do you suppose will have the greatest enjoy- 
ment in his toy? Of course the boy who made it, tired himself over 
it, cut himself, failed often, and tried again and again till he suc- 
ceeded. The toy is his creation ; the object of his hopes, fears, am- 
bition; the result of his own labors, and he is rightfully proud of 
it.” 

“Then,” said I, “a man has an equal right to be proud of his la- 
bor; yet I often hear you blame those purse-proud upstarts who have 
worked hard enough for their fortune, too.” 

“Yes, so I do, when on the strength of it they become upstart, 
over-boastful, overbearing, and pretentious. The principle is good, 
but it has run wild and overgrown. You never heard me blame a 
man who, without that pretension, takes an honest pride in his be- 
ing self-made. Such a man was George Stephenson, James Watt, 
and many others like them; and such men I honor.” 

“You set a great store by work,” said I. “Why should a man 
work if he has neither necessity nor inclination for it? Take me, 
for instance, and I am a type of many. I have birth, position, a fair 
share of good looks and talents, and a good fortune ; but the corner 
that I suppose should be filled up by ambition or energy is occupied 
by a vein of idleness, dislike to trouble, if you will, a pleasure-seek- 
ing vein. I seek it, and find it. Why should I work when I hate 
it? I am as happy in my way as your Pitts were, or as Stewart 
Claverhouse is in his manner. In what, then, is he better off than I 
am?” 

“In the mere possession of energy, without which talent is use- 
less. If you were both put down penniless in this London, he would 
make his way and become something, and you would not.” 

“ Well, even admitting that, did I make myself?” 

“No; but we can overcome nature to a great degree — root out or 
subdue our bad qualities.” 

“The deuce we can!” said I; “but I am still unanswered. I 
have got as much pleasure as I want in the easy life I lead. Why 
should I burden myself with any definite labor? Isn't the first aim 
and end of life happiness, enjoyment, getting the most out of it that 
we can, whether in work or idleness?” 

“ The mere pursuit of personal happiness is not the end and aim 
of life,” said Nina, energetically; “and if all men thought and act- 
ed so, the world would be a thousand times more miserable than it 
is. We were created, not for idleness, but 

‘“To work, that each to-morrow 
Find us farther than to-day.’ 

Adam was told, ‘in the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy 
bread.’ ” 


ARTIST, MODEL, AND SPECTATOR. 


83 


“ Stop there, Nina! On your own ground that was a curse.” 

“Yes. The hard labor by which most men gain their daily bread 
was given as a curse ; but that doesn't say that all work is so, or 
that any man has a right to be a mere pleasure-seeker — it is an abuse 
of the talents intrusted to us. ‘ To whom much is given, of him 
shall much be required.' An account must be rendered of every 
penny spent, every word spoken, every action done.” 

“ To whom, I want to know?” demanded I. “ Who will ask it?” 

The blue eyes opened wide. 

“Why— oh, poor Casper, you don’t believe in God!” she broke 
out suddenly, kneeling before me, and hiding her face against my 
breast. 

“Nina, Nina, don’t! I am too hopeless and worthless a sceptic 
for your tears. I don't deserve them, my darling,” I said, bending 
over her; but there was a strange, horrible, choking feeling in my 
throat — a terrible dread that I had lost all but her pity, yet no ray 
of her faith in a Deity shot through me. From my cradle I had 
scoffed, and sceptism wrapped my soul like a mantle. Soul ! Have 
I a soul? Is there a hereafter ? It cannot be, ye powers of dark- 
ness ! There cannot be an eternal future of nameless gloom and 
terror! I dare not believe now. It were nothing but damnation! 

Presently she rose, and said sorrowfully, “I wish I could make 
you have faith even as a grain of mustard-seed, but I am not good 
and wise enough.” 

“You? Nina, you are like the angels you believe in. I am not 
fit to touch you, I believe!” 

“ Hush, hush! You are still my own dear old Casper; only don’t 
talk so.” 

Before I could answer there came a tap at the door. It was a re- 
lief to me. 

“ Come in!” I said. 

It was one of the servants. 

“ Miss Nina, the foreign girl you told me was to come is here, in 
your boudoir, as you ordered.” 

“Yes, that is right!”' exclaimed Nina. “Come, Cas, you may 
witness the sitting.” 

I followed her up-stairs to her boudoir, and there, sure enough, 
stood the picturesque Roman cameo-seller and her handsome dog, 
which I did not caress this time. Anna saluted us in her usual 
graceful way, and Nina, busily placing her easel and chalks, said, 

“You have been used to sitting for a model, haven’t you, Anna- 
Marie?” 

“Si signorina, to painters; to no sculptor except the Signor 
Angelo.” 

“Ah, no. Well, I am only going to do you in chalks — you and 
your noble hound. What is his name?” 

“ Corsare, mademoiselle.” 

“ How will you keep him quiet when you are placed?” said Nina. 

‘ ‘ If mademoiselle will tell me how she wants him placed, I will 
do it, and bid him stay so. He will not move then till I order him,” 


84 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ The dear old fellow!” exclaimed Nina, hugging the wolf-hound; 
“ he shall be rewarded with a dishful of choice bits, the great beau- 
ty, that he shall. Anna, how do you think I got at you?” 

“ Je ne sais pas,” said the girl, with a curious, half-amused smile. 

“Very simply. I recognized you as the original of the ‘Fiora di 
Maria,’ and some others, and I guessed that Mr. Claverhouse would 
know where to find you ; so I sent to ask him last evening, and he 
answered that he would send you a message to come to me, which 
of course he has done. How will you stand — what attitude?” 

“As mademoiselle wishes,” said Fleur-de-Marie, lifting her hand 
to cover a smile, which, however, Nina caught, and broke into her 
sweet, joyous laugh. “Casper, she is laughing at me; what a 
shame, Anna!” 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, I did not laugh.” 

“You were smiling, though, at me. There now, you are cover- 
ing your lips again.” 

“But mademoiselle is so amusing,” said the cameo-seller, fairly 
covering her lips to stifle the soft rippling laugh that was irresistible. 

“Am I? Well, never mind; laugh as much as you like, Anna. 
Casper, please draw forward that great marble vase. Now, Anna, 
stand by it, and open your image-box ; take the prettiest statuette in 
your right hand, and rest your left on Corsare’s head — so,” said she, 
coming up and placing her model as she wished ; and a more grace- 
ful attitude, a more perfectly beautiful picture than the child and 
dog presented, I never saw. 

For some time there was silence, while Nina’s fingers sketched 
boldly and rapidly the outlines of her model, to get the position in 
the first sitting. Gifted in all things, taught by the best master, 
Nina was already a very beautiful amateur artist, and quite equal 
to do justice to the model before her. Silence did not reign for 
more than half an hour, for then Nina began asking the Proven^ale 
her history, of which, however, Anna gave her little more than she 
had to me ; and from that we passed easily enough to various sub- 
jects — travels, the arts, politics; and here Anna was more unre- 
served. I was astonished at the amount the wanderer had seen in 
her short life, at her information, and the keenness and breadth of 
her observation ; nothing had passed her by unnoticed. 

The two hours flew by, and the clock chimed half -past one before 
we thought it was much over twelve. 

“ Well,” said Nina, rising, and laying a half-sovereign on Anna’s 
open box, “I have got the position perfect. When can you give 
me another sitting?” 

“ When mademoiselle pleases.” 

“ On Thursday, then, at eleven; so au revoir, Anna-Marie.” 

“Adieu, mademoiselle; monsieur, bon jour.” 

And girl and dog, fellow - wanderers, went forth again. Nina 
from the window watched them out of sight, and then turned away 
with a heavy sigh. 

“My sweet Una, what is the matter?” 

“It makes me sad, Casper,” she said; “that beautiful child, well 


THE ROOT STRIKES DEEP. 


85 


educated, delicately born, delicately bred, as refined in every way, as 
much a lady in every sense, as I am; and yet I live in luxury, and 
she is a homeless wanderer, alone in the wide world.” 

And with a very quiet, saddened brow, she turned to put away 
her drawing. 


MANUSCRIPT NY. 

THE ROOT STRIKES DEEP. 

You, to whom I address this story of wrong and misery, give me, 
if you can, some pity, and, if there is a God, pray for one to whom 
belief now is eternal death, whose only hope is that soul and immor- 
tality have no existence; one who is accursed, body and soul — if he 
has a soul. 

You have seen the dark fell thing that had coiled about me poi- 
soning what should have been a pure fountain; and you have seen 
that, side by side with it, lay the strange, mysterious fascination 
which drew me so irresistibly to Stewart Claverhouse. 

It is said that the dove is fascinated by the serpent. Has no one 
ever thought that the serpent might be fascinated by the dove, the 
devil by the angel? 

Well, I went one day to his house, as I had said I should, and 
asked for him. His Italian attendant Luigi showed me to the draw- 
ing-room, saying that his master was in his studio at work, and he 
believed M. de Cavagnac was with him, but he would see. 

So, then, that man had the entree of the great sculptor’s studio; I 
had not. 

I turned to look round the drawing-room, and my attention was 
instantly attracted by a full-length portrait of a young and lovely 
woman, grandly beautiful ; but the face was certainly not strange to 
me, that clear, dark, colorless complexion, that silky waving hair 
actually gleaming in its raven blackness, those perfectly chiselled 
features, and large, grave, melancholy gray eyes — I knew them all ; 
I had seen them a hundred times in Stewart. Had she died young? 
And while I gazed and wondered, Claverhouse and the Italian came 
in together ; and the moment the usual greetings had passed I asked, 

“ Stewart, who was this lady?” 

“ She was my mother.” 

“I thought it; I always thought you must be like your mother, 
and have always wished to see her.” 

Cavagnac had paused before the picture, gazing up into the noble 
face, and I heard him murmur, 

“ How beautiful! Oh, how beautiful!” but he started and turned 
away as my voice struck his ear. 

“ Stewart, what was her name?” said I, suddenly. 

“ Cora.” 

I stood looking at the portrait, fascinated. 


86 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Cora! What a sweet name! Like her face. Oh, if my mother 
had been like this one ! 

“Did she die young?” I said, half to myself, but the sculptor an- 
swered it quietly, 

“Yes; when I was born.” 

“ Then you cannot remember her?” 

“ Remember her! I never knew her save in my dreams.” 

“And you were an only child, the doctor told me,” I added, 
turning round. 

He half smiled. 

“You must have mistaken him, Casper. I am the only living one 
of four, all older than I— they all died.” 

But the subject pained him, and to change it I asked, 

* ‘ Shall you be at the opera to-night ? They play ‘ Der Freischutz ’ 
for the first time this season. ” 

“So I saw; yes, I shall go— Guido and I. Are you disengaged, 
Casper?” 

“Why, no — I am in attendance to-night on my mother and Nina 
to a concert, and then to finish the evening at my brother’s; they 
give a ball.” 

“I remember that Lady Falconbridge told me of it the other day 
when I met her. We will drop in after the opera, you know,” he 
added, smiling; “they are so kind as to give me fairly the entree to 
their house, and carte-blanche to bring any one I like. Cavagnac is 
a great favorite there.” 

“Indeed!” said I, negligently, but giving a furtive glance at the 
count. The dark, keen eyes met mine full for a moment, and then 
went straight to Stewart’s face, but with what a change ! How they 
softened into inexpressible tenderness and love! I am quite sure 
that man would at any moment have laid down his life for Stewart 
Claverhouse, round whom every tendril, every fibre of his nature, 
seemed to have twined. I could understand it perfectly, and hated 
him the more because it was returned measure for measure, while I 
was excluded ; I, who from our boyhood had vainly coveted what 
this Italian had won without an effort. 

Stay! Was it without an effort? Love begets love. Had I given 
what he had? Did I lore Stewart? No; I was fascinated, drawn 
by some invisible power in him, but love could find no place beside 
the dark horrible thing that lay coiled round my heart, and had of 
late taken a darker, deadlier form. 

What had this Cavagnac that I had not, to make Stewart love him 
as he did? his beauty? his mind? his heart? Which had first sought 
the other? and what, oh, what subtle antagonism had ever stood be- 
tween me and Claverhouse? I must know; and the moment the 
Italian went, saying he would return soon, I turned abruptly to 
Claverhouse. 

“ Stewart, what is it that has always stood between us, a barrier I 
cannot pass? What is it in me that is wanting?” 

I spoke passionately, suddenly; and he gazed at me with a look 
which, for a second half wondering, grew deeply, painfully sorrow- 


THE ROOT STRIKES DEEP. 


87 


fill — that 'strange look of sublime, almost more than human, pity, 
which I had seen once before, and never could forget if I were to 
live a thousand years. Then he laid his slight hand on my shoul- 
der, looking into my very heart with those deep, spiritual eyes. 

“Casper, you want soul.” 

The words were few ; the voice very low, very grave, strangely 
pitying in its touching music; but I staggered as if lightning had 
struck me, and turning from him, covered my face. 

Was this the answer I had looked for, hoped for, watched for, for 
years? Was it what I expected? No; and it stifled and crushed 
me beneath a load of inferiority. Between this pure being and me 
there stood, then, an invisible mystery ; something that I felt was 
there, yet could not see or comprehend ; something far above and 
beyond my range of vision, with which I had neither part nor sym- 
pathy. 

I seemed groping in darkness that I could feel; heart and brain 
were in a tumult of fierce, burning torture. One moment my im- 
pulse was to turn and fly his presence forever; the next, to fling 
myself at his feet and cry, 

“Teach me, even me, what is this wondrous soul!” 

But his soft, cool hand touched my burning fingers; his gentle, 
grave voice fell like soothing music on my ear: 

“Forgive me, Casper. The answer should never have passed my 
lips if I had known it would pain you.” 

I dropped my hands, and mastering myself, faced him again. 

“ The pain is not your doing, Stewart; the question was mine. I 
drew the answer, and on me be it. But now I have it, I am only 
puzzled — strangely pained. The answer is to me incomprehensible. 
I don’t understand all it involves. ” 

A troubled expression came over his fine face. I could see that 
he had not calculated on a darkness so profound as was betrayed 
in my last words. To give the simple answer which he felt was 
one thing; but to explain it to a mind obtuse to all that he believed 
and lived in, was something very different — an impossibility I know 
now ; but then — 

“Stewart, Stewart!” I broke out at last, “would I could under- 
stand or fathom your nature one-liundredth part!” 

He shook his head with a half-sad smile. There was no crossing 
the broad, deep river that ever flowed between us. 

I turned, and paced to and fro, wild, passionate thoughts surging 
in my brain. “I would I had never seen him — never looked on 
him ! Boy and man, he has haunted, fascinated, crushed me ; tortured 
me, I know not how or why! He loves that dark Italian better than 
life. He can even love Luigi; but me — me he cannot even like!” 

The last thought formed itself into words, and passed my lips be- 
fore I was aware, and, low as they were muttered, reached his sensi- 
tive ear. 

“ Car’ amico mio, I never told you that.” 

“ Told me? No, you are too noble, too generous, to willingly give 
pain ; but I can feel and see it ! My presence gives you no pleasure. 


88 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


my absence no pain. I am nothing to you. You may speak of me 
as one of ‘ my friends/ because there is no other word. You called 
me amico just now, empty fagon de parler of your flowery Italian, 
which you give as much to Luigi and your dog Fidelio; but I never 
had your confidence, never could break down your reserve. You 
do not count me your friend in very truth !” 

“No/’ he answered, quietly; “I have only one friend. Jonathan 
had but one David.” 

“ Yet,” I said, bitterly, “your Italians say, ‘ If I have fifty friends, 
it is not enough/ ” 

“If I have one enemy, it is too much,” said a soft, deep voice, 
that to me always had a world of irony beneath its quiet tones. 
* ‘ Monsieur should give the context. ” 

I turned, with a start, to meet the brilliant, steadfast eyes of Guy 
de Cavagnac. 

How I hated that man! how I feared him! not physically, not 
morally, but as man fears some mysterious unseen power, untangible, 
invisible, save to the subtle instinct which unerringly forewarns him 
that it will one day do him dread, irremediable evil. 

I feared his sarcasm, and writhed beneath his irony, because I 
could not retort it — the shafts always struck too deep. I hated him. 
I hated Stewart for loving him. 

I forced myself to answer lightly, “ The context was not needed, 
Monsieur le Comte.” 

“Ah, non?” said he, shrugging his shoulders; “ mais c’est vrai, 
n’est ce pas?” 

“Well enough,” said I, nonchalantly. “Good-by, Stewart, till 
this evening.” 

I passed out, but Claverhouse followed me. He had given a 
wound, and must pour in the balm. 

“ Casper, I am afraid you have misunderstood me. I was glad to 
see you when I came back to England. If your presence gave me 
no pleasure, if I disliked your companionship, I should have found 
means to let you know it. Forgive me if I have pained you.” 

“ It was my doing, not yours.” 

I wrung his hand and went away. His last words were in my 
head as I walked home. I was unanswered even now. “ If I dis- 
liked your companionship — ” that was not liking me. Whether in- 
tentionally or not, his Jesuit answer had, for the second time, defeat- 
ed me. Beyond the fascination, the strange charm of his presence, 
its spell faded, and the fell, dark thing that lay in my heart took 
deep ineradicable root. 

I dreaded the evening at the Falconbridges’. I dreaded meeting 
Claverhouse and Cavagnac there. I hoped that they would not 
come, but they did, half an hour after us. I heard a lady behind 
me whisper eagerly, “There he is at last — the great sculptor. Do 
you see, Mrs. Norman?” 

“Yes; a very handsome man, a most beautiful countenance. I 
met him abroad, you know. Who is that handsome man with him? 
—a foreigner, certainly.” 


THE ROOT STRIKES DEEP. 


89 


The first speaker answered, 

“It is the Count de Cavagnac— an Italian.” 

“Italian! with that name?” 

“Oh, a nom de guerre, of course; doubtless he is a political ref- 
ugee. It is quite enough that Stewart Claverhouse introduced him. 
They are old friends, I believe. The count is a most fascinating man, 
a general favorite ; there is certainly a great charm about him. ” 

I moved away wondering. I could see nothing to fascinate about 
Guy de Cavagnac — no great charm ; but I suppose there must have 
been, for society unquestionably indorsed the opinion. Nina, too, 
came gayly to me. 

“ There they are, Cas, talking to Theodora. I’m glad the count 
has come too; I like him.” 

“Do you, Nina? You didn’t, though, when he beat us on the 
river,” I added, lightly. 

“Oh, but I was a child, and did not know him; besides, I did 
like him for handling his boat so perfectly. I wonder where he 
learned it.” 

“You had better ask, mademoiselle.” 

“I will, sir, if the fancy takes me. Here they come!” Dancing 
was beginning again as Theodora and her guests came up to us. 

1 * Good-evening,” said Nina, bending low ; ‘ ‘ was the opera perfect ?” 

Stewart answered her. “ Perfect Weber gave it to the world, Miss 
Lennox, and to-night it was perfectly rendered.” 

“ I wish I had been there, but Aunt Georgine would go to the con- 
cert. Casper, next opera night you will be good, and take me!” 

I smiled, well pleased that they should see her affection and trust 
in me. Blind fool' that I was, should not her very frankness have 
warned me? I am not the only one who has strained at a gnat and 
swallowed a camel. Oh, if we could sometimes go over our lives 
again; if we could sometimes retrace only one year, recall but one 
mistake, one wrong spoken word, one false step ; if we could recall 
but one misspent moment of time, how many would stand where 
they do now? Should I be where I am now? Oh, mother, mother! 
if there is a God, will he lay the whole sin at my door? 

I saw the dancers whirl past me, I heard the music and hum of 
voices near; but when I became again conscious of what was actual- 
ly going on around, I perceived that the group had slightly altered. 
Theodora and another lady sat near me, and Cavagnac stood by 
them, talking in his quiet, softened tones that had in every inflection 
such an echo of the voice, that from first to last I could never hear 
without fascination— Stewart’s. 

I heard it now behind me, and glanced round. There he stood, 
erect, easy, graceful, with Nina leaning on his arm, and two or three 
men, eminent artists, standing about him. The first distinct words 
I heard were from one of these. 

“Claverhouse, Lady Falconbridge told me something about a 
sculpture — a perfect masterpiece — which you brought over with you. 
I hope you are going to let us public see it?” 


90 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“It has left my studio,” Stewart answered, with a half -smile, 
“it was executed to order, and is now in the owner’s possession?” 

“A real lover of Art, I hope, who will not shut up so priceless a 
treasure?” 

“I know the owner most intimately,” said Nina, her lips quiver- 
ing with amusement, “ and can assure you positively that any one 
can see it by giving their card. It is thrown open every Thursday, 
from ten to four.” 

“ Quite right. No one has a right to hoard up either art, science, 
or literature. You have seen this sculpture, then, Miss Lennox ? 
You can tell us who is the owner.” 

She broke into her rich, gleeful laugh, and bent low : 

“Nina Lennox has the honor to be the owner of II gran’ Maestro’s 
masterpiece, but you votaries of Art are welcome to see it whenever 
you will.” 

“We shall certainly avail ourselves of your kind invitation, Miss m 
Lennox, to-morrow, if we may; at least, I will.” 

“ Certainly. Ah, dancing is stopped; supper, I suppose.” 

There was a general move. The group broke up, and Stewart 
Claverhouse passed me, with Nina still leaning on his arm. 

I drew back, setting my teeth hard, compressing my lips till the 
blood must have almost left them ; but as I turned to follow the 
crowd, I looked up to meet Guy de Cavagnac’s quiet, dark glance. 

Curse him! curse him a thousand times! 


CHAPTER VII. 

TRACKED DOWN. 

It had been gloomy and lowering all day, threatening, indeed, to 
close in a rain or thunder storm ; for amid the sullen leaden gray of 
the clouds there was here and there that peculiar dusky reddish 
glow which in summer foretells the war of the elements. As it 
drew towards evening the clouds deepened in their murky tints, 
and gathered in a black mass through which the red still glowed, 
right over London. Those who thronged the streets glanced up, 
and hurried on their way to shelter of some kind; but the storm 
broke suddenly at last, as such storms generally do. There was a 
flash, a gleam, that for the hundredth part of a second illumined 
the darkened vault above, as if Heaven itself had flung wide its 
gates, that man might catch a glimpse of eternal light. There was 
a low roll of thunder, grand in its ominous majesty; then a crash, 
that seemed to rend the air and shake the very earth with its gigan- 
tic wrath. And then the heavens were opened, and like a deluge 
the rain fell; the streets, but a minute before so thronged, were de- 
serted; the crowd vanished as by magic, where, it would have been 
hard to say; but one, a unit of the many, with a foreign face and 


TRACKED DOWN. 


91 


dress, hastily threw on a mantle she had hitherto carried carelessly, 
covering alike her picturesque garb and pretty box of wares; and 
with her dog sought shelter beneath a neighboring archway, the en- 
trance to Mews, already pretty well filled with wayfarers, most of 
whom looked suspiciously on the wolf-hound, and some muttered 
anathemas on him. One man, evidently a foreigner, who wore a 
great loose coat and broad hat drawn low, touched the Provengale, 
and said in French, 

“ Mon enfant, is your dog quiet?” 

The girl answered, “ Oui, tou jours,” and turned directly to see the 
speaker. She knew the voice again, the figure, dress, the tout ensem- 
ble — the man who had bought the statuette of II Angelo’s “ Madon- 
na.” Instinct, rather than any definite thought, made Anna de La- 
val try now to see his face, but the hat shadowed it. He evidently 
did not recognize her, though, as if glad of something to pass the 
time, he added, shuddering, 

“ A terrible storm. Are you afraid of a thunder-storm?” 

“ Non, monsieur; je 1’aime bien.” 

“Diable! I don’t! Ugh, look at the rain, enough to drown one. 
How these English live in such a climate je ne sais pas.” 

“Eh bien,” said Anna, quietly; “and these English wonder how 
the French can live under the despotism of a republic.” 

“Diantre!” exclaimed the man, in a low, fierce undertone ; “it 
shall a com — But what do you know about us? Where do you 
come from?” 

“ Rome, signor.” 

The man made no answer, only looked scowlingly out on the 
heavy rain. So did the child for some moments, and then a thought 
struck her. 

“It is but weary work waiting for rain,” she remarked. “ Why 
does not monsieur enliven the time by smoking?” 

“ Ah, bon, bon, mon enfant.” 

Out came cigar and fusees, and Fleur-de-Marie gained her end. 
The light held to the cigar illumined for full a quarter of a minute 
the stranger’s whole face. Anna’s quiet, keen glance marked every 
feature, and printed them off on her mind with a secret smile. It 
was the living original of the miniature which Guido di Schiara had 
shown her. Come what would, when he left the archway she must 
follow him, track him down. She drew a little back into the gloom 
behind him, and leaned against the wall, patient, watchful, and mo- 
tionless, looking at no one but him. 

It had now fallen quite dark ; but the rain pelted down ceaselessly 
for full twenty minutes, with frequent vivid flashes of lightning and 
heavy rolls of thunder. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the vio- 
lence of the shower ceased, and it settled into a steady, hopeless, 
soaking rain, not heavy, but fine and penetrating. One by one those 
who had sought shelter left it to make the best of their way, wher- 
ever that was. 

The stranger with a muttered curse on England and English cli- 
mate, which it certainly deserved, left the archway. The cameo- 


92 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


seller let him get a safe distance ahead, and then, like his ghost or 
shadow, followed him, utterly regardless of the rain. Corsare kept 
close at her side. But it was no easy chase ; for the man, though he 
kept a swift and steady course, looked around and behind him con- 
tinually in a nervous way, as if fearful of his shadow on the glisten- 
ing pavement, as it shortened and lengthened between the lamp- 
posts. But for all that he never saw the slight, dark figure that was 
behind, sometimes quite close, and hidden by only a few people. 
Once, nothing hid her but the tall, stalwart form of a stately police- 
man. 

So, as unerringly as a sleuth-hound, the Provengale tracked every 
step the man took — down Regent Street, Waterloo Place, and by 
Charles Street into the Haymarket, past the National Gallery into the 
Strand ; and then he kept straight on, till near Somerset House he 
paused and entered a shop. Urged still by the now thoroughly 
aroused detective instinct rather than by connected thought, the 
cameo -seller hurried forward to see what the shop was, and what 
the man did there. 

It was the gunsmith’s, the name Stephen Hurne. She looked cau- 
tiously in through the window. The man, her chase, stood at the 
counter buying — what? She watched intently. He took up a very 
small, plainly finished revolver, examined it closely, laid down some 
money, put the weapon in his pocket, and turned to go. Anna-Marie 
drew back quickly, and the man passed out and resumed his swift 
way. The girl followed. 

He kept on now without stopping into Fleet Street and up Lud- 
gate Hill, but there he slackened speed, and turned up the Old Bai- 
ley. She was close behind him theft, and kept tolerably near, under 
cover of the pelting rain and darkness ; but in a minute or two the 
man turned into a narrow dark street, and vanished suddenly into 
one of the houses. The Proven^ale paused to mark the number of 
it, and then turned back into Ludgate Hill, shivering now, weary, 
chilled, cold, and wet; but she had only one thought, one face before 
her: she must make her way straight to Guido di Schiara; and the 
child patiently set her face westward, fatigue and cold and wet put 
aside for the time, scarcely felt at first. It was a very long way back 

to B Street, where, in a handsome set of chambers, Cavagnac had 

taken up his residence, and it was late when she reached the house 
and rang. 

-Is the Count de Cavagnac within?” 

The footman stared, evidently inclined to shut the door in her face ; 
but the count had given positive commands that no one who asked 
for him should be turned away: if he were out, his own confiden- 
tial servant was to be told. So the footman rang a bell that sounded 
somewhere above ; for, evidently answering it, there came down a 
very quiet, very respectable man of about forty, dressed in black, a 
Frenchman, though his English was extremely good. 

“You rang my bell, George?” he said. 

“I did, Mounseer Auguste. Here’s a girl asking for the count, 
but she didn’t ought to see him, by her looks.” 


TRACKED DOWN. 


93 


M. Auguste turned his kind face to the child, and a smile came 
over it. 

“ Yotre nom, c’est Anna, n’est ce pas, petite?” he said. 

“ Oui, monsieur.” 

“Bien, entrez, restez ici un moment.” 

Girl and dog passed into the hall, much to the disgust of George. 
Auguste vanished up-stairs, but in two minutes he came back. 

“ Follow me, petite, to Monsieur le Comte, and your dog too.” 

“We are so wet,” said Anna, hesitating; “very wet.” 

“N’importe, pauvrette, venez.” 

The cameo-seller followed him up the wide staircase and along a 
corridor, where he opened a door, bade her enter, and closed it noise- 
lessly behind her. It was a large, handsome room, brilliantly lighted, 
and on the hearth, before a bright blazing fire, stood Guido di Schi- 
ara’s tall form, and Corsare bounded to him, while Anna paused. 

“ Come here, Anna, to me,” said the count’s soft voice. “ Why, 
my child, you are wet — wet through — and your little hands are like 
ice,” he said, taking them in his own warm hands; “you are shiver- 
ing, Anna mia; you have surely never been out in this storm and 
rain?” 

“Yes, monsieur, I could not help it. I have something to tell you.” 

“ Not a word yet,” said Cavagnac, ringing the bell. 

“Corsare, lie down and dry, mon brave. Anna, give me your 
mantle.” 

But her slight fingers were too chilled, and the nerveless hands 
dropped. Cavagnac stooped, unfastened it, and took it off. 

“ Auguste,” he said, as the attendant entered, “ will you be kind 
enough to get this mantle dried, and bring me a small glass of hot 
brandy - and - water, and something to eat? This child is chilled 
through and through.” 

“Mais, monsieur, it is nothing,” began Anna-Marie, as Auguste 
departed. 

“Hush, ma ch&re enfant,” said Cavagnac, smiling, as he laid his 
hand on her shoulder; “such a delicate Provence rose will not live 
in this cold England unless it is taken care of. ” 

The Proven^ale trembled under his touch, the sensitive lip quiv- 
ered; and, suddenly bowing her face, she burst into tears, not loud 
and noisy, but deep, heavy weeping, that shook her slender frame 
with its force. 

Few men can see a woman weep unmoved, still less a young, frag- 
ile girl, almost a child in years, and Cavagnac’s heart beat fast as it 
had never beat before. 

“My child, you are over- weary.” 

“Monsieur, mille pardons, but — but I am a wanderer, and not 
used to such kindness,” she whispered, brokenly. 

Cavagnac could not speak for a minute for the strange, deep ach- 
ing at his heart. He leaned against the mantle-piece, perfectly still, 
until he had mastered himself, while the wolf-hound put up his 
great shaggy head and licked his hand; and then Auguste came 
quietly in, set down a small salver, and retired as quietly. 


94 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Drink this, Anna,” said Cavagnac, offering her the glass; “it is 
not too hot — drink.” 

She drank it. If that hand had offered her poison she would al- 
most have taken it; and then he made her eat, while he gave the 
dog sundry choice morsels, with an entire recklessness as to the 
handsome rug which would have horrified any house-keeper. 

“ Now your little hands are warm,” he said, touching them, “ and 
your lips have more color; that is right. You may now tell me 
what you came to say, mon enfant. ” 

“ Monsieur, I have found and tracked down Monsieur Louis Bon- 
heur.” 

“You have ? Anna, you are invaluable ; you were born for a 
detective.” 

“As monsieur was. Will he hear the details?” 

“ Certainly, mon enfant.” 

In a few short words the cameo-seller told him the story, not, of 
course, forgetting the revolver. 

The count listened in silence, and then said, 

“ To one so keen as you I need hardly ask if you noted the name 
of the shop?” 

“Stephen Hurne, monsieur.” 

“And nearly opposite Somerset House?” 

“Yes.” 

Cavagnac rang the bell, and Auguste came in, bringing Anna’s 
mantle. 

“Auguste, at nine o’clock to-morrow go into the Strand, and near- 
ly opposite Somerset House you will see a gunsmith’s named Stephen 
Hurne. About eight this evening Monsieur Louis Bonheur bought 
a very small pocket-revolver there; go in and ask for one exactly 
like it — your friend has shown you his, and you want its exact fellow 
— comprenez vous bien?” 

“ Oui, Monsieur le Comte.” Auguste bowed and retired. 

“He knows his business well,” said Cavagnac, with a quiet smile, 
“and so do you, pretty one; so now for my part of the compact,” 
and he put five sovereigns into her hand. “Keep your watch still. 
If you see him, track him, if with any one especially — ” 

“And if they part, monsieur, which am I to follow?” 

‘ ‘ I must trust much to your own discretion, Anna. Follow which- 
ever you think is going about the most important business ; but those 
details I must leave to you.” 

“Merci, monsieur,” said Anna-Marie, rising; “come, Corsare.” 

“Stay, ma ch&re Anna; if it rains you cannot go. I don’t like 
letting you go alone so late at all.” 

“It is nothing, monsieur, ” interposed the Proven^ale, hastily. ‘ ‘ I 
am used to it, and it does not rain now.” 

He looked at her a moment, and gave way, but he went down 
with her himself to the hall-door to make sure that the rain had 
really ceased; but when she had gone some little distance he took 
his felt hat and noiselessly followed her. He kept the slight figure 
that flitted on before him in sight till it vanished into the shelter of 


A GLIMMER OF LIGHT. 


95 


the humble lodging she occupied. No harm could come to her while 
he was near her. 

And then he returned to his own handsome rooms, but somehow 
the rooms seemed darker and very lonely. Where was the graceful 
form and soft Madonna face? Where was the sweet, plaintive 
voice that touched him as no face or voice had ever touched him 
before in all his changeful life? The room was void— the child was 
gone. 


MANUSCRIPT XYI. 

A GLIMMER OF LIGHT— A POISONOUS WORD. 

I came in one morning, and, looking for Nina, found her in her 
boudoir before the easel, sketching rapidly, and only looking up now 
and then at her model, Anna de Laval. 

“Busy as a bee,” said I, shutting the door. 

I was welcomed with a bright “You, Cas? I’m glad you are 
back,” and a quiet*, “Bon jour, monsieur,” from the cameo-seller. 

What a beautiful couple they were. Each so patrician, each such 
a complete type of their race; and as I looked at them, I thought of 
Nina’s words only a week before. It did seem strange. There 
stood the two young girls, equally well born, equally beautiful, 
equally refined and sensitive in their delicate womanhood, and yet 
one had every luxury, friends and love, surrounding her; the other 
utterly homeless, friendless, a wanderer in the streets of a great city, 
exposed to insult, danger, and temptation. 

The thought was before me when I caught Nina’s large, thought- 
ful blue eyes fixed on me, reading my face, for her glance went to 
the Proven^ale, and she shook her head sadly, but presently she 
asked her abruptly, 

“Anna-Marie, is not your life very precarious?” 

“ Sometimes, mademoiselle.” 

“Sometimes! it must be miserable! If you were sick and ill, 
what would become of you?” 

“I might get through, or I might die, mademoiselle,” said the 
girl, with a quiet sadness that startled me. “ It would not matter. 
I have no one who would care.” 

“Not one, Anna? I know who would care.” 

“Eh, mademoiselle?” 

‘ ‘ For one, the maestro. ” 

“Ah, the Signor Angelo is so noble; he is too generous.” 

“And I should care, Anna.” 

“ Mademoiselle!” 

“ Don’t you believe me?” 

“But, mademoiselle, I am only a cameo-seller. You cannot care 
for me — a stranger.” 

“ Why not? the signor does, it seems.” 


96 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Ah ! II Angelo. But I am no stranger to him,” said the child. 

Nina’s pencil moved on silently, but I could see that she was 
struggling with strong feelings. 

“I wish I was rich! Oh, I wish I was rich!” I heard her mur- 
mur. 

I bent over her chair, and said, “Why that wish, Nina? you have 
carte-blanche. ” 

“ It is your money, Casper.” 

“Mine is yours, my dear child,” said I, quietly. 

“Not quite, Cas.” 

I stooped, and whispered in her ear, “Your pleasure is mine. 
Ask her what I know is in your heart: we can settle our score 
presently.” 

She glanced up at me with a half- tremulous smile. 

“You are very kind, Cas.” 

But, for full ten minutes she worked in silence, while Anna’s dark, 
dreamy eyes, though fixed on her dog, evidently saw scenes or faces 
far away. Whose? I wonder. She started at Nina’s voice. 

‘ ‘ Anna, if you were a peasant, I would ask you to be my attend- 
ant; being a lady as much as I am, that would not do. Yet I want 
to take you from your present life so much — oh, so much! — what can 
I do?” 

The Provengale raised her large, mournful eyes with a look, a 
smile, so sad in its coldness and desolateness, that it pained me in- 
expressibly. 

“ Rien, mademoiselle.” 

“Anna, I am a woman like yourself; you can have no reason for 
refusing my friendship. ” 

“Mademoiselle honors me; she follows her generous heart, and 
not her reason.” 

“ I do. I will educate you for a governess, a singer, promote any- 
thing for which you have taste and talent. Is not that reason?” 

I saw the Southron’s brow flush darkly, then grow perfectly col- 
orless, and her glance went straight from Nina to my face with a 
world of expression, part of which I am sure I read aright. I may 
have been mistaken, but I think not. The money, she knew, would 
come from me, and she would neither lay Nina nor herself under an 
obligation to me — to me she would owe nothing. Yet it was a 
tempting off er ; to regain her lost position and lift her out of poverty 
and misery was not a chance that would occur again. But she re- 
fused it. 

“Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times, but I cannot ac- 
cept your goodness.” 

“ Casper, isn’t this child enough to provoke a saint?” 

“ Which you are not, mignonne, ” said I. “I suppose Anna-Marie 
knows her own affairs best. ” 

Nina shook her head. 

“But, Anna, you take no time to consider; you cannot like your 
wandering, precarious life.” 

“ It has its charms, too, mademoiselle, in its very change.” 


A GLIMMER OF LIGHT. 


97 


“ An evasive answer,” said I. “Are you too proud to accept fa- 
vor from any one, Anna?” 

“Non, monsieur; one could not go through life like that,” she 
answered, giving me a keen look. 

Wrongly or rightly, I again interpreted it, “It is you and your 
money that I refuse, ” and it stung me, I hardly knew why — stung 
me into something of a sneer. 

“Yet you act against your words, Marie; if your friend the maes- 
tro were to make you the same offer as Miss Lennox, would you re- 
fuse it?” 

I shall never forget the look that girl gave me, the proud lip quiv- 
ering, the delicate nostrils distended ; yet, impulsive Southron as she 
was, she answered calmly, though I felt her contempt in every quiet 
cadence : 

“Monsieur may like to know that before he left Rome the Signor 
Angelo offered to do for Anna de Laval all that a noble, high-souled 
man could do for a poor friendless wanderer.” 

“And you refused?” exclaimed impetuous Nina. 

“I refused. Not, monsieur” — turning again to me — “ because I 
was too proud, but because I already owed him a greater debt of 
kindness than I could or can ever repay. ” 

“You must be very clever,” said Nina, “to have made him ac- 
cept your refusal.” 

How the girl’s mobile face changed again in answering Nina. “I 
only did it, mademoiselle, by giving a promise with it.” 

“ And that was — ” 

“To claim of him the assistance I then rejected at no distant day.” 

“By which he meant soon?” 

“No, signorina; it might be two, three, or four years. The gran’ 
Dio may send that I shall never have to claim his generosity. ” 

I saw by Nina’s smile that she understood the girl’s feelings and 
high-wrought delicacy, but I did not. It seemed to me absurd, over- 
fine drawn, and unnecessary, save for a reason which, though ob- 
vious to me, did not seem to have influenced her. I spoke out : 

“Why, in the name of sense, Anna, you should not I can’t see, 
except for a worldly reason, which does not seem to have influenced 
either you or the maestro — he in his offer, and you in your refusal — 
I mean, the almost impossibility of escaping the world’s misinter- 
pretation and evil judgment.” 

“Monsieur, firstly, the world would have known nothing of it; 
and if it did, II Angelo stands in his high integrity above its evil 
judgment, and I below it. Neither of us care for it.” 

Nina lifted her sweet face to mine, and said, simply, “‘To the 
pure all things are pure. ’ ” 

For one second something in me seemed to stand still. I felt men- 
tally as if I had received a stab, and I was conscious, darkly, of a 
vague, miserable sense of inferiority; of something, beautiful and 
high, from which I was shut out forever, though even this cameo- 
seller lived within its halo and breathed its atmosphere. I crushed 
down the feeling, and restraining a more scoffing answer, said, 

7 


98 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“That is an easy and false sophistry; not true in the world, and 
impossible to act upon.” 

Nina I saw was too pained to answer, but the Proven^ale said, * 

‘ ‘ Monsieur is, then, wiser than God ; the eyes of his soul see fur- 
ther than the Deity into the truth.” 

“ Indeed, bell’ Anna,” said I, lightly, “ I’m not going to argue now 
as I did in Rome; I’m too lazy; so bon jour.” 

I went to my study and smoked, but the words haunted me ; 
they were always coming across me. 

“Deity, soul, truth. What is truth?” 

I turned restlessly, and bent over an open book on the table; but 
I started as my glance fell on Plato’s words — 

“ Truth is the body of the Deity, and light His shadow.” 

There was a pencil-note in the margin : 

“This classic philosopher was, it seems, as weakly credulous as 
learned moderns, who, at least, should be more enlightened. It is 
degrading to see man deliver up his intellect a slave to such an emp- 
ty farce, a vain foolery, the offspring of a few disordered fancies.” 

I knew my mother’s writing, and shut the book with a smile. 

“Yes, right; wonderful credulity, gigantic slavery,” I murmured. 

I look back now to that moment, and all is horror and darkness. 
There is no hope, unless there is oblivion; for if not — if not , was 
not mine the wonderful credulity, mine the gigantic slavery? and 
will not mine be the eternal damnation? 


MANUSCRIPT XVII. 

MY MOTHER LIFTS A VEIL UNCONSCIOUSLY. 

If I had wished to avoid Stewart Claverhouse I should have found 
it impossible as long as we were in the same city, for everywhere I 
went I met him ; the great sculptor was feted and welcomed every- 
where. Sometimes Dr. John was with him, but he was, not young, 
and preferred quiet; but the Count de Cavagnac was constantly with 
him, both at home and abroad. 

“I don’t like that Cavagnac, mother,” I said to her one day, “and 
I can’t see what Claverhouse finds in him so fascinating.” 

“His taste is not singular, my dear boy. He is a general favor- 
ite; personally, I think him a most fascinating man; so does Nina.” 

“You women are taken by his handsome face.” 

“ I am not, and certainly Nina is not, as you know, Cas. He is a 
singular man. I should like to know his history, and who he really 
is. Have you ever asked Claverhouse?” 

“I! no, indeed; I might as well ask one of his own statues, for I 
should get about as much out of it. ” 

“ He looks it,” laughed Georgine. “ I wonder he has never mar- 
ried. ” 


MY MOTHER LIFTS A VEIL UNCONSCIOUSLY. 


99 


Why, indeed? I had often asked myself that question of late, with 
restless uneasiness; but I answered carelessly, 

“ Oh, I suppose, artist-like, he has created an artist ideal, the real- 
ity of which has no existence in life.” 

“I don’t know that,” said my mother. “I called the other day 
to return the doctor a book he lent Nina, and he — Doctor John — 
showed me the portrait of Mrs. Claverhouse. Have you seen it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then, in his own mother Stewart Claverhouse had a living 
ideal.” 

“In face, but what of character and intellect?” said I. 

“ They matched the face, if Doctor John spoke truth ; she must have 
been possessed of the same magic charm as her gifted son. Casper, 
was he an only child?” 

“ No, there were three others, but they died.” 

“The poor mother! were they sons or daughters?” 

“I don’t know; but they died in infancy or early childhood, for 
Stewart cannot remember them. ” 

“ And the father?” 

“I don’t know anything of him, but Stewart once showed me his 
miniature.” 

“ Was he handsome?” 

“Very; but a stern — I should say a broken — man. I always 
thought it very singular, the way he sent his only child to be brought 
up abroad.” 

“Very; it could not be for cheapness, I suppose?” 

“ Oh no, for he was wealthy and free-handed. He spared no ex- 
pense on Stewart, and I know he had an almost unlimited command 
of money.” 

“ Casper, haven’t you ever wished to be as famous as he is?” said 
my mother, suddenly. 

I started, but answered with a careless laugh, 

“No; it’s too much trouble, mother.” 

“There’s no fame without it, though.” 

“Precisely; therefore, fame and I are strangers. I hate exertion 
and work. I am not ambitious.” 

“And the sculptor is both laborious and ambitious?” 

“Well, of course all are not born alike,” said I, yawning; “and 
you know, lady mother, that we of creole blood were never famous 
for an overplus of energy.” 

My mother was leaning negligently back in a low American chair 
with a French novel held between her fingers. She dropped it on 
her lap, and said, 

“ I wish you would have the energy to choose a wife — to fall in 
love, as the phrase goes.” 

Again I started. She did not know T how nearly she had hit me. 
I hardly knew it myself at first, but I laughed. 

“Why, mother, do you want to get rid of me? Have Walter or 
Theodora put it into your head?” 

“No; but it came across me the other night at their ball, when 


100 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


you were laughing and chatting with the Countess of Laneton’s 
pretty daughter, Lady Maude Cleves.” 

I drew a deep breath of relief, for I had feared something else 
nearer home. 

“Did it? are you turning match-maker? Why, my old school- 
mate, dashing Tom Dacre, is her favorite slave, I fancied.” 

“What if he is?” said Georgine, impetuously; “you are surely 
more than fit to enter the lists! Haven’t you the energy to win the 
girl you love from any rival under the sun?” 

“ By Jove! yes,” said I, almost passionately. “ Where I love, no 
rival shall pass me by. ” 

Georgine looked at me, puzzled. 

“Do you love, Casper, or have you frittered away your affections 
on worthless objects?” 

“No, mother, I have not; but when I marry, when I love, it will 
not be Lady Maude Cleves. ” 

“ Who then, Casper?” 

“I’ll tell you when I have found my Eurydice,” I answered, as I 
left the room. 

Bo the mask fell from my own eyes, and showed me plainly as 
noonday what had been before only vaguely felt. I did love with 
a love that had in a few months sprung into a strong vivid life, that 
like a tornado must sweep all before it. 

It seems so long ago now, such an immeasurable distance of time, 
that it might be a hundred years for all my sense of it. Oh, Nina, 
Nina, looking at me through the heavy gloom with those soul-lit, 
sorrowful eyes, can I now dare to call by the holy name of love the 
fierce, selfish, wild passion which possessed me like a devil? 

Oh, for one moment free from remorse and despair! Oh, for the 
power to undo the past ! 


CHAPTER VIII. 

MORNING GOSSIP. 

“Were any of you at the opera last night?” asked one of a group 
of young men who were lounging one morning at their club, enjoy- 
ing cigars, gossip, and the papers. 

Two or three answered, “ Yes; why did he ask?” 

“ Only because I saw a strange face since my month’s trip! Who 
is that striking-looking foreigner who was in Lady Falconbridge’s 
box, with her and Lady Maude Cleves? — some adventurer, eh?” 

“Don’t know, and don’t care,” one answered. “ He was out in 
the Park yesterday, riding a splendid chestnut.” 

“Who’s that?” demanded a young guardsman, lounging up. 
“ Who are you fellows talking of?” 

“That distingue-looking foreigner.” 


MORNING GOSSIP. 


101 


“Oh, that man. Here, Tom Dacre, here’s Herbert asking about 
Guy de Cavagnac.” 

A fine, elegant-looking young man, with a clear, bright eye, joined 
the group. 

“Herbert asking about him, eh?” 

“Yes; who and what is he?” 

“ I don’t know. Cavagnac isn’t his real name, for he is an Italian, 
the bosom friend of Stewart Claverhouse, whose introduction is, of 
course, sufficient passport. The count is a capital fellow; by the 
way, I met him last night at F ’s. ” 

“Oh, he patronizes F ’s, does he ?” cried Herbert, laughing ; 

“plays, I suppose, like the deuce, or a Neapolitan?” 

“Don’t you believe it,” said Dacre; “ he’s got his wits about him, 
I tell you. I don’t believe a Parisian Greek would come over him. 
Wardour tried hard to make him play deep, but it was no go; my 
nabs laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and turned on his heel. 
Wolfgang left the table at the same time.” 

“ Oh, was he there?” said the young guardsman. “I thought he 
had pulled up, Tom?” 

“So he has. Oh, he draws it mild now; but, by Jove! he went 
the pace at college, and after it, too; took devilish good care that 
his mother and guardian didn’t ever know the half.” 

“ How the deuce he managed to pay up without a split I never 
could tell,” said Herbert. “I was quite moderate to him, but I had 
an awful blow-up with my governor; so, how Wolfgang was so clev- 
er caps me.” 

“Don’t you know?” said Tom, laughing. “It wasn’t so bad, ei- 
ther. He got the fellows here to give him a little time, and he went 
to Baden, then to Paris; he had luck at play, and in the long-run 

won heavily at ’s, y in Paris; he broke the banks. That’s how he 

cleared himself.” 

“ Ha, ha! did he play fair always?” 

“For shame! yes.” 

“ Where did you hear it?” asked one, “ for I never heard you men- 
tion it before.” 

“ I only heard it recently myself, my dear fellow. I was told by 
this very Cavagnac, who was in Paris at the time, and — ” 

“Hush! there he is himself, coming in.” 

“ Of course you have heard the news?” said Cavagnac, entering 
with a general salute to the group. 

“No; what?” 

“ Perch&! has not Monsieur Dacre told you, or the journals?” 

“We were talking, and Tom has told us notliing,” said the guards- 
man. “ What is the news?” 

“The Ministry was defeated last night by a large majority, and 
must either resign or dissolve.” 

“ Oh, we know that; is that all?” 

“No; there has been a Cabinet Council already; and as I came 
along I heard that they were going to the country.” 

“Trust the Radicals for holding on,” said Tom Dacre. “The 


102 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


country won’t have them; hut they never know how to retire with 
flying colors, and will end as before in ignominious flight.” 

“Oh, be hanged to them; don’t let’s prose into politics, ” cried a 
deprecating voice ; but another said, yawning, 

“What’s the difference between politics and policy? the last is 
the carrying out of the first, I should say.” 

“I think, ’’said Cavagnac, “ that your own Bulwer defines them 
well : ‘ Politics is the art of being wise for others, policy the art of 
being wise for one’s self.’” 

“Very good; but, I say, Cavagnac, where did you hear that a dis- 
solution was decided on?” 

‘ ‘ From Claverhouse ; I met him. ” 

“ Ah, he knows some of the fellows in official quarters,” said Tom. 
“ Just like those Rads; got the cheek of a highwayman’^ donkey.” 

There was a laugh, and then the young men, Italian and English- 
men alike, plunged into politics, the pet subject of Englishmen, and 
as certain to be heard where any number of them are gathered to- 
gether as any religious subject is certain not to be heard in any Pa- 
risian salon. 


MANUSCRIPT XVIII. 

SINKING. 

I loved Nina Lennox, and mine only she must be, come what 
would ; but when I would have taken a step to win her, to bind her 
to me, something seemed to hold me back and make me guard my 
secret still. What was that something? Was it that her purity 
stood between her and the deadly blight of my dark and scoffing 
Atheism? or was it an instinct which, disguise it as I would, told me 
in my secret heart that her affection for me could never change its 
character ; nay, more, that from her childhood upward there had ever 
been between us the same fearful nightmare, want of something that 
had made me demand of Stewart in desperation, “ What is it?” If 
I had asked her the same question, would she have given the same 
incomprehensible answer, “You want soul?” I grew restless and 
uneasy, and could not bear her long out of my sight. I dreaded a 
rival; I feared I knew not what. I fretted if she did not come 
about me. I chafed equally at the very frankness of her affection 
more than at a new name she had lately given me. One sitting, 
sauntering in, I heard her tell Anna de Provence, ‘ ‘ Monsieur Cas- 
per is my frere adopte.” And after that she called me often “ mon 
frere.” 

Why did I fear rivalry? Did I feel mvself inferior to the men 
with whom she came in contact? No. f held myself proudly the 
equal, of many the superior. Theirs was not the opposing influence 
I feared. I smiled at the mere thought that any of them could 
stand for a moment in my path. What, who did, then? 


SINKING. 


103 


The serpent who had lain so many long years within me in uneasy 
slumber began now to uncoil and rear its hideous head and deadly 
form in monstrous life and strength. As a bank of black clouds 
gathers densely and stormily, so it now gathered up in one dense 
black mass, the deadly jealousy and hatred of years which had crept 
into my heart's core almost from the first hour I saw him, the in- 
stinctive dislike and dread and antagonism of evil to good. The 
sculptor was the man whom I felt stood between me and my end; 
yet I was torn by doubts that tortured me between hopes and fears. 
Why had he remembered her so well; remembered a promise and 
fulfilled it, though to do so had cost him months of labor? Why 
had he never married? But he had only smiled and laughingly re- 
torted the question when I had asked ‘ ‘ what charm he had carried 
about him?” Was the charm that memory? Impossible, absurd 
nonsense of my passionate brain. He was a mere boy then, and she 
a child. 

I had perhaps, after all, made a rival where none existed. Watch 
as I would, I could not detect that he sought her out in any marked 
manner. In society he gave her only the same courteous attention 
which he gave to any other young and beautiful woman; but then 
I knew that if he did love her, his very love, in the chivalrous deli- 
cacy of his noble nature, would make him shelter her from the no- 
tice which so wounds a true woman’s sensitive purity. I knew that 
he met her often at my brother’s house, for they lived near us, and 
Nina was never two days without being some time or other with 
Theodora, when I could not be with her without the betrayal of an 
espionage which would have lost all. And Stewart was often there, 
always welcomed. Was it possible for a man like him to be often 
in the society of a being so gifted as Nina — a being in such perfect 
and exquisite harmony with every throb of his own existence — and 
not love her ; ay, I can confess it now, such love as he could give, 
but of which I was utterly incapable? Mine dragged me down, 
down into hell, his lifted him above the earth; mine came and pos- 
sessed me like a devil, his came and dwelt in him as an angel ; mine 
was accursed, his was holy. . . . 

Nina’s heart, I felt sure, was still free, for I believed it impossible 
for a girl so young as she to love and not know it, and knowing it, 
she must betray it to one who watched her as I did. No change of 
feature or voice, no quiver of an eyelid, could have escaped me. 

Sitting where I do now, and looking back, I wonder sadly at my 
blindness. 

One day, to escape thought, if possible, I sauntered into the Park, 
but it was crowded, and I was in no humor for encountering any 
one I knew. I wandered along the Serpentine into Kensington Gar- 
dens, and at last stopped near one of the rhodondendron beds to 
light a cigar. As I did so, I noticed some one sitting on the other 
side of the flower-bed. I knew the figure, the dress, the very droop 
of the graceful head; how had Anna-Marie come there? I stood 
where I was, putting out the cigar, and even placing myself where, 


104 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


while seeing and able to hear her, she could not see me even by turn- 
ing round. 

Her dog was with her, for though I could not see him, I heard 
her talking to him once; but as she did so, I heard a step coming 
towards the spot, and saw a figure. So did Anna, for she looked 
up. The next moment she rose quickly, with a deep reverential 
salute to the stranger, and my lips curled as I saw that he was a 
priest. He was as unmistakably a gentleman, a dignified, handsome 
man of fifty or so, with a face which, in its mixture of benignity, 
firmness, and grace, reminded me of Doctor John. He bowed, giv- 
ing her a kind “ Good-morning ” as he passed, but suddenly some- 
thing, perhaps the sad beauty of the young face, seemed to strike 
him, and he turned back, and addressed her in French: 

“ My child, by your dress and face, you come from Italy. What 
have you in that pretty box?” 

He had a fine, rich voice; very pleasant in its modulations, vigor- 
ous and full, a strange contrast to the child’s plaintive, languid ac- 
cents. 

“I have statuettes, Monsieur le Pretre, and camei, and a few pho- 
tographs ; les voici. ” 

“And is that fine dog yours?” he asked, as he looked at her wares. 

“ Si, Signor Padre.” 

“You have some good photographs here,” he observed. “Some 
I recognize from engravings of them — ah, yes, the ‘Fiora,’ and- 
‘ Poet’s Dream;’ why” — I saw him look at Anna-Marie in surprise 
— “ you are the original — ” 

“ A votre service mille fois, monsieur.” 

He smiled a little, but took up another. “How lovely! how per- 
fect! what is it?” 

“ Monsieur, it is II Angelo’s last and most wonderful work, ‘ The 
Wreck.’” 

“ That every one is talking of? Ah, how I wish I could see the 
original,” said the stranger. 

‘ ‘ Monsieur can do so easily. It is on view every Thursday. ” 

“ Is it? Can you tell me where?” 

“ At No. 12 Street. If monsieur presents his card he will be 

admitted.” 

“Perhaps, my child, you can tell me who owns this great sculpt- 
ure.” 

“Mademoiselle Lennox, monsieur.” 

“ Merci, petite. I will buy this one. Can you speak English?” 

“Fairly well, monsieur,” said Anna, smiling; “but I have not 
been long in England. ” 

“ I hope those who own you are kind to you, pretty one?” 

‘ ‘ I am free, monsieur. I am alone in the world. ” 

“ You — so young, so delicate, and — have you no friends?” 

“ None, monsieur, but the maestro, and — the gran’ Dio.” 

“Ah, humanity, humanity, ever putting the visible created before 
the Invisible Creator,” said the stranger, shaking his head; then, 
touching the large black cross she wore, he added, 


DR. HARRINGTON. 


105 


“You are, I see, a Catholic. ” 

I laughed to myself as I saw, and heard her answer, the ever-read y 
expressive shrug of the shoulders, the half-smile and quiet, “ Oui, 
monsieur. ” 

“God keep you from temptation, my child!” he said, earnestly. 
* ‘ Oh, it grieves me, it grieves me ! all these miseries that I cannot 
help. All I can do is scarcely a drop in the ocean,” he said, more 
to himself than her. 

“Monsieur, but Jesus Christ commended the widow’s mite more 
than the rich man’s thousands.” 

Softly as she spoke, I heard every word, and a shiver ran through 
me, though I did not understand her allusion; but he did, for he 
thanked her, and bidding “God keep her,” went on his way. 

I, too, stole away. “ God ” again! I hated the very word, for it 
was a bond between Claverhouse and Nina which I could never 
have. 

Who was this stranger? Should I ever see him again? 


MANUSCRIPT XIX. 

DR. HARRINGTON. 

It was, if I remember rightly, the day after I had seen Anna de 
Laval and the stranger, that about ten o’clock Stewart Claverhouse’s 
groom brought me a note from his master, but did not wait for an 
answer. It needed none, save my own appearance, for it was only 
a line or two, asking me to dinner that evening, to meet a small par- 
ty, some of whom were old acquaintance. 

I sat with the note in my hand — shall I say thinking? for the feel- 
ings that surged in my brain were not thought. 

Should I go? what use to refuse? I could not habitually avoid 
him, and yet how I dreaded his presence ! because I dreaded, hated 
to feel that in his presence I was utterly powerless to withstand the 
influence of the subtle charm, the incomprehensible fascination which 
I could only shake off when away from him. Near him, the very 
struggle to resist and case myself against that power was torture ; 
away from him, it was little less suffering to give full rein to my 
dark passions. 

I knew, too, that I was sure to meet Guy de Cavagnac in Stewart’s 
house, and that man I hated as one can only hate a being who, one 
feels, reads your very heart, and feared him as one only can fear a 
sure and adverse fate. And such to me was Guy de Cavagnac. 

Besides, if he could, I never could forget how he had twice hum- 
bled, outwitted me, defied me, and wounded my vanity, years ago, 
on the river; and again, not two months ago, when I went down to 
see my brother at Dover; besides feeling, whenever I encountered 
him, that I was in no way his match. Strange that, though his voice, 
accent, his very intonation, was to my ear so like Stewart’s, it rarely 


106 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


failed to ruffle m£ ; his hand, so like Stewart’s in its singular beauty, 
I could not bear to touch me, while Stewart’s voice and touch soothed 
me. 

I would face them all. Why should I shrink like a coward? And 
I went. 

When I entered the drawing-room I found the guests already 
there. The party made only ten in all — Claverhouse, Dr. Fantony, 
the Count de Cavagnac (of course), two old school-fellows — Tom 
Dacre and Gus Seymour, now a rising barrister— myself, the Earl of 
Laneton, my brother Walter, the eminent artist, M , and a stran- 

ger — the stranger of the Gardens. Claverhouse at once introduced 
me. 

“Let me introduce to you another old pupil of my uncle’s. Mr. 
St. Leger Yon Wolfgang, the Rev. Dr. Harrington — an old friend, 
Casper, of Doctor John’s.” 

“ Whom,” said I, as I bowed, “ I have had the pleasure of seeing 
before.” 

“Indeed!” said Dr. Harrington, with a grave smile. “I am not 
aware that I have ever seen you, Mr. Yon Wolfgang.” 

“Were you not in Kensington Gardens yesterday, Dr. Harring- 
ton, talking to a very beautiful, high-born-looking Roman cameo- 
seller? Passing some way off, I saw you — at least I think I am not 
mistaken.” 

“No,” said he. “It was I. I did speak to such a child — a most 
singular child.” 

“ She is very singular; an old 'protegee of Claverhouse. I suppose, 
Dr. Harrington, you recognized in her the original of some of his 
most exquisite works?” 

“Directly. No one could miss the likeness who had seen even 
good engravings. She told me how I could see his last great work, 
‘ The Wreck.’ It must be wonderful, even judging it by a photo- 
graph. The original of the dog I see in Fidelio there on the rug; 
but where did he, I wonder, find one for that most perfect of all the 
faultless group, the one living figure?” 

“You have asked the right person, monsieur,” said Cavagnac, 
sauntering up; “the original is his own cousin, Mademoiselle Len- 
nox, though Claverhouse did it from memory.” 

“Indeed!” he answered, and I turned away, biting my lips. 

“ Who is Dr. Harrington, Stewart?” I asked him, aside. 

“He is an old friend of Doctor John’s and mine. The church is 

ours, St. Augustine’s, Street. Your cousin knows him. He is 

a noble-hearted man, very clever and energetic, as much born for a 
priest as some are born lawyers or politicians.” 

“ Or sculptors, or idlers like me,” added I, laughing. “ I was born 
to idleness, I believe.” 

“No man was born to idleness in this working world,” said the 
sculptor, gravely. “God never gave man brain and soul to waste 
in idleness.” 

I was spared an answer by the announcement of dinner, and we 
went down. 


DR. HARRINGTON. 


107 


At table I was placed between Seymour and Dr. Harrington, who 
was on Stewart’s left, Lord Laneton being on his right. To my an- 
noyance, my vis-a-vis was the Italian, the very last person I would 
have wished to be there. 

With so select a party the conversation was almost naturally gen- 
eral, and it flowed first upon politics. What wonder, when all save 
the count were Englishmen, three of whom at least were active and 
influential politicians, to wit, the Earl of Laneton, Falconbridge, and 
Tom Dacre? So the recent defeat of the Ministry and their appeal 
to the country was discussed and canvassed, and the pros and cons 
as to whether the new House, when met, would be any more favor- 
able to the Ministers than its predecessors. 

“I would lay any bet,” said Tom, “that so far from gaining a 
majority, they’ll lose some of their minority.” 

“ So you say,” remarked Gus Seymour, laughing, “and it is very 
likely; and still I should like to be heard on the other side, as the 
old lawyer said.” 

“ What is that, Gus?” said Doctor John; “let’s have the story.” 

“ Why, sir, saving Dr. Harrington’s presence, it is of an old lawyer 
who, one Sunday in church, heard a very eloquent sermon, but in 
which the preacher spared no pains to paint the devil in his very 
blackest colors. ‘ Capital speech,’ whispers the lawyer to his friend 
— ‘ capital,’ but I should like to be heard on the other side.’ ” 

There was a general laugh at Seymour’s story, and Claverhouse 
said, ‘ ‘ I think that ‘ the other side ’ is never in want of defence. It 
is a case in which there are many more defendants than plaintiffs.” 

‘ ‘ That is too true, ” said Dr. Harrington. “You lawyers, ” he add- 
ed, addressing Seymour, “must, I think, be often placed in very 
painful positions. When you are retained for a criminal whom you 
believe guilty, how can you conscientiously defend him?” 

“You forget, doctor, that in English law and justice no man is a 
criminal until that of which he is accused is proved in open trial: 
the counsel has no right to judge his client guilty.” 

“But a man cannot avoid or prevent secret conviction or opinion.” 

“A legal mind can, by nature or habit, hold itself unbiassed, and 
look at a case in a purely legal point,” answered Seymour. 

“ Well, but suppose the prisoner — and it has been done — confesses 
his crime to his counsel, of course he must then throw up his brief?” 

“Certainly not! such a thing is rarely heard of. If the accused 
confesses his guilt to his counsel, he has still the right to be defended 
on his trial ; the counsel may, with clear conscience — nay, his plain 
duty is to see that his client has a fair trial, and is only condemned 
strictly under and according to law. ” 

‘ ‘ I understand you ; but still the confession must place you in a 
painful and false position.” 

“Yes, so far; and it is, I think, foolish of any prisoner to confess 
to his counsel if he means to plead ‘Not guilty;’ his attorney is, of 
course, very different.” 

“Very few confess,” remarked Lord Laneton, “if statistics are to 
be believed.” 


108 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


“No, Lord Laneton; but then statistics cannot well reach the pri- 
vate confessions that prisoners may make to their attorneys.” 

“ I wonder,” said my brother, “ how many condemned men think 
that they have been fairly tried and sentenced?” 

‘‘Very few, of course.” 

“And sometimes, ” said Stewart, “ justice would demand a new 
trial; that is where your English jurisprudence, much and rightly 
boasted, is far inferior to foreign law : you want a Cour de Cassation 
— an Appeal Court.” 

“ And have every criminal appealing?” said I. 

“Point de tout, mon ami. It answers in France and Italy; why 
not in England? By what right or justice is a man accused of crime 
denied the right which is granted in civil cases? If a man is non- 
suited about his property, he can appeal; but if his life be in ques- 
tion, he has no second chance: if new evidence be found after 
condemnation, there is only a roundabout way open to him. The 
question has been mooted for a long time, but, as the English usual- 
ly do, it will be, I suppose, talked of for twenty years before anything 
is done.” 

“Ay,” laughed Cavagnac, “the English look a long time before 
they leap.” 

“And you foreigners,” retorted the earl, “leap before you look: 
ours, at least, is the safest way. ” 

“I don’t know that; we might go faster with great advantage,” 
said Claverhouse: “ we have to endure an evil a long time before 
we get a remedy— it runs through everything.” 

“ Ah, well, well, my dear Claverhouse, we manage, in spite of all, 
to be the first nation in the world.” 

Stewart laughed, and Tom Dacre said to me, “ You should stand 
for Parliament, Wolfgang. I could get you in for a Conservative 
borough.” 

“Too much trouble, Dacre ; I could never face it. As I told 
Claverhouse, I was bom for idleness.” 

I saw Dr. Harrington glance at me and half shake his head, but 
he said nothing then. Afterwards, in the drawing-room, he came 
up to me with his coffee-cup in his hand. 

“Mr. Wolfgang, do you think any man is born for idleness?” he 
said, in his grave, kind manner. 

“It is a fair inference, doctor, when fortune has already spared 
the necessity for labor by giving fortune, position — all, in fine, that 
men work for.”% 

“And what, then, of the men in this room — types of many — for 
what have they worked?” 

“They? oh, for fame, because they are so distressingly energetic 
or ambitious, or both, that they can’t enjoy in content the goods that 
chance has given them. Well, they were born for working bees; I, 
and such as I, born to all that I want, and without the curse of a 
restless ambition and energy, were, I may consider, justly born to 
do nothing.” 

“If, my young friend, you had been born an idiot, or so nearly 


DR. HARRINGTON. 


109 


one as to be almost as irresponsible, you might with some reason 
suppose that you were not meant for the active works of life, but 
you are intrusted not only with fortune, but with talents. Do you 
think they are meant to rust? No! God has unmistakably de- 
clared that every talent, every good, is but lent; a gift, given only 
on condition that it is used. Our Lord’s parable of the talents is a 
sufficiently plain command in itself.” 

He paused, but I merely bowed, as if politely waiting for him to 
go on. Somehow, I dared not avow that I did not know to what 
parable he alluded. 

He added, “Look at your brother and Mr. Dacre, with political 
talent ; Mr. Seymour, with legal talent ; Claverhouse, gifted with 
such marked talent for art; can 3^ou say that they would not be 
very wrong to enjoy their wealth in idleness, and let those talents 
rust?” 

“I don’t see why they should not, doctor, save that, as I said, they 
are cursed with ambition.” 

‘ ‘ Ambition is only a curse when men make it so by giving it no 
limit; like all other gifts, it must be bounded, for St. Paul says, ‘Be 
temperate in all things;’ but it was given as a blessing: the want of 
it is a curse, if anything. God gives talents to be used, and to him 
we are responsible for them.” 

A soft voice, that made me start and shiver as if there had been 
poison in its musical cadence, said quietly, “ Monsieur, you are argu- 
ing at a disadvantage.” 

“How, count?” 

“Because Monsieur Yon Wolfgang denies your authority and the 
responsibility you would impose.” 

“How do you mean, count? I don’t quite take your jest,” said 
Dr. Harrington. 

“Faith, no jest, doctor — is it, Monsieur Casper? You are some- 
thing very near an atheist.” 

I could have struck him where he stood, but I bowed, answering 
Dr. Harrington’s look of grieved surprise. 

“I certainly cannot satisfy my reason with what most men seem 
to believe so easily — credulously, it seems to me.” 

Dr. Harrington shook his gray head and looked down — it seemed 
to me too deeply grieved to speak — but the next moment he lifted 
his eyes and asked me, suddenly, “ Were you ever at a death-bed?” 

I never had been, for death was horrible to me — a grim thing, 
which I avoided. 

“No, sir; never.” 

“ It is a pity. You would hardly, at your age, have remained an 
obdurate infidel, for the death-bed of a believer might have softened 
you, that of an atheist startled you at least to inquiry and search. I 
know nothing more terrible in my long experience than the death- 
bed of an atheist.” 

He crossed the room, and I too turned away, glancing at Cavagnac. 
The ironical smile had left the delicate lip, the dark face was very 
grave, and he moved away silently to where Stewart stood for g, 


110 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


minute apart, in a bow-window. Two steps, and I was near the 
curtain of it. I saw him lay his hand on the sculptor’s shoulder. 

‘ ‘ Angelo, Angelo, which after all will have the heaviest account 
— Wolfgang, who scoffs at and denies the living God, or I, who, ad- 
mitting him on the lip, have denied him in my life?” 

The sculptor’s answer was in Italian, and I left my place. 

‘‘Which will have the heaviest account?” What and who, then, 
was this so-called Guy de Cavagnac? 


CHAPTER IX. 

FLEUR* DE-MARIE ANSWERS TWO OR THREE QUESTIONS. 

One gloomy, lowering evening the cameo -seller was returning 
homeward, weary and dispirited, less in body than mind, her dog at 
her side, walking with drooping head and gait, and when she paused 
at a crossing he would lick her hand. 

The narrow street in which she lodged was but a short way from 
the Marble Arch. As she entered it, she saw a tall, dark figure 
walking slowly up and down, but the moment she drew nearer it 
came on swiftly, up to her. 

“Monsieur — ” 

“Tiens toi, ma chSre,” said Cavagnac, laying his hand on her 
shoulder, and gently turning her back; “come with me a little way, 
if you are not too weary. ” 

Not weary now. His touch, his voice, his presence banished 
weariness, and she turned back with him into the Edgeware Road, 
across through the Marble Arch into the Park. 

“ I have been waiting for a long time for you, Anna-Marie — fully 
an hour, I think.” 

‘ ‘ J’en suis tr&s fachee, monsieur. ” 

“N’importe. You have seen no more of Louis Bonheur, I sup- 
pose, or I should have seen you?” 

“Nothing much, monsieur; only this evening, as I was passing 
Y g’s, in Regent Street, I saw him inside.” 

“ Was he alone?” 

“I do not know exactly, monsieur, for the shop was full; but I 
saw him address several remarks to Monsieur Yon Wolfgang, who 
was there also.” 

“ Ah, diable!” said the detective, quick and suspicious directly. 
“But he can have nothing to do with any plots. Did they have 
the air of confreres?” 

“No; I fancied that Monsieur Casper seemed surprised at being 
accosted; he eyed him as one does a new face and figure.” 

“Had Monsieur Casper no companion, male or female?” 

“ Not that I could perceive, monsieur,” 

“You tried tq see, then, Anna?” 


FLEUR-DE-MARIE ANSWERS SOME QUESTIONS. Ill 

“Monsieur told me to take note of him whenever I could, because 
he is the maestro’s enemy.” 

“You are an invaluable friend, caralina. Well, it is of him I 
want to speak, but you must answer me candidly.” 

“If I can, Monsieur Guy; if I am able.” 

“You must be able; if not, you must find out,” he said, again lay- 
ing his light, but now slightly imperative, hand on her shoulder. 
“You still sit to Mademoiselle Lennox. Is her cousin often pres- 
ent?” 

“Yes, he always comes in.” 

“Which you don’t like, eh? you are not in love with him?” 

The Proven^ale half laughed, and colored. 

“ Je ne l’aime point,” she said, very decidedly/* but I like him to 
come in.” 

“ Ah, woman! to tease him. He hates sarcasm. Now tell me. 
You are a woman, and very quick. His cousin is very fond of him, 
isn’t she?” 

Cavagnac felt the girl start under his hand, but she answered, 

“Yes, very fond of him; but only at the last sitting she told me 
that he was completely ‘ son fr&re adopte.’ ” 

“ Son frdre, eh? I thought so, ” muttered Guido between his teeth. 
“Then he never shall have her, Anna mia.” 

“ Signor!” 

“Was he in the room when she said that?” 

“ Yes; he did not like it.” 

“Ha! By what do you judge?” 

“ I saw his face, monsieur, and he left the room.” 

“We men must be sharp indeed to escape such eyes as yours,” 
said the Italian, half smiling. 

“ Monsieur Casper’s face and his control of it are not like yours, 
monsieur: the first is not difficult to read, the last rather readily 
gives way.” 

“ Tell me, Anna; does he love his cousin— you understand me?” 

“Yes, monsieur, as much as he can; he might have spared him- 
self the trouble.” 

Cavagnac drew a deep breath of relief. 

“You think so, Anna? that she does not and never will love him?” 

“ I know it, monsieur. It is impossible that she could love such 
a man; there can be no rapport between them. Monsieur Casper 
has no soul.” 

‘/Strange how that strikes all who come in contact with him,” 
said Guido di Schiara. ‘ ‘ II Angelo used those very words to me : 
it is true — Casper is soulless. ” 

He turned back, and added, “You told me that the Signorina 
Nina wanted to take you from this life, and you refused, because 
the money, you knew, was Monsieur Casper’s — and I understand it.” 

“He thought her romantic, high-flown, absurd,” said Anna de 
Laval; “ he could not conceal it from me.” 

“ Yet he wished her to be pleasured, though it were an expensive 
Quixoticism?” 


112 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Yes; he is free enough with his money, monsieur.” 

* ‘ He is. Anna, have you given me every reason for your refusal ?” 

The Proven^ale looked down, and her lips trembled. 

“Monsieur, I promised the maestro that I would go to him.” 

“Yet you refused him, and obtained grace for two or three years?” 

“ Ah, mais, monsieur,” said the pleading, plaintive voice. 

“I understand you perfectly, my child; yet forgive me again. 
Anna, why not go now?” 

“No, not now, not yet,” she said, with a quick, energetic utter- 
ance, very different to her habitual languid cadence. 

“Anna-Marie, you have some reasons — tell them me.” 

“ Monsieur, one is real, the other fancy or fanciful.” 

“Never mind — tell me, my child.” 

“ Les voici ; Monsieur Casper is a secret enemy of II Angelo. You 
have bidden me keep him under a sort of surveillance, and I cannot 
do that so well in a higher as in this humble position; to serve the 
signor I would give my life.” 

“I know it, child. Oh, woman, woman, how cruelly we men ill- 
use and abuse your devotion! Anna, tell me your other reason.” 

“I could not serve monsieur any more,” said the Provencale, 
simply. 

“Again, again,” he murmured. “Anna, dismiss that, let it go 
for nothing; but the other keep to, for I tell you there is in me a 
dark presentiment — the offspring of my great love for Angelo — that 
Wolfgang will be to him as an evil spirit, and that we who love the 
maestro will be needed in a heavy hour of trouble. From the first 
moment I saw that Wolfgang I felt for him one of those strong an- 
tipathies in which I have never been mistaken. Now, here we are 
again at the Arch. Have you money?” 

“ Yes, monsieur, thank you.” 

“ Adio, caralina, a rivederla.” 

They parted, and each went a separate way. 

Strange how Guido again missed the child’s face and presence. 
There was something wanting now — a void he dared not, would not, 
analyze. 


MANUSCRIPT XX. 

FALSE STEPS. 

Do you wonder why, in all my distracting doubts about Nina, I 
never made a confidante of my mother, never told her my secret and 
my misery, never asked her the questions which only a woman could 
answer, and which I longed, oh, how I longed! to ask a woman — one 
who was soft and womanly, unlike my mother? 

One drawing morning Nina had gone out to see Theodora, and 
was not yet back wdien her model came. Her lady’s-maid came to 
ask me “if the young girl was to wait?” 


FALSE STEPS. 


113 


“Of course; let her go up to the boudoir. Miss Nina won’t be 
long.” 

And I went on smoking and reading for a few minutes, till it 
struck me that a chat with Anna de Laval would be preferable, and 
then I went up to the boudoir 

The cameo seller was standing before a very fine steel engraving 
of the Last Judgment, but she turned as I entered. 

“Bon jour, Monsieur Casper.” 

“Bon jour, Anna-Marie; how do you like that engraving?” 

“It is very beautiful.” 

“ There is a ‘ but ’ in your tone; what is it?” 

“It is nothing like the original, monsieur.” 

“Of course not— it lacks the coloring. Have you seen the paint- 
ing?” 

She bowed. “The Signor Angelo got me an admittance.” 

“ More than I ever got, then,” said I. 

“Yet you were in Rome, monsieur?” 

“Yes, only for a little while. I have yet to visit your bell’ Italia. 
I travelled in France, America, and Germany, of which you know I 
am partly a native by blood. ” 

“I know — monsieur is a Tedesco.” 

“For which you, as a good Italian, are bound to hate me.” 

“Madonna mia! no, signor,” said Anna, smiling. 

I laughed at her deprecating manner, and sat down in an easy- 
chair; but as she moved again to the picture it struck me, “Ask her 
your question;” and I suddenly addressed her, but in a quiet, medi- 
tative way, as if it was a problem that had just occurred to me. 

“ Anna, when a woman loves, she cannot conceal every sign of it?” 

She turned before she answered, and looked full at me, with those 
great, observant eyes, set under the fine, well-defined brows. It was 
a look, amused, surprised, and suspicious. It certainly was an odd 
question for a young man to ask so young a girl. 

Then she answered, still watching me under her long lashes: 

“ It depends on her character, Monsieur Casper. A woman with a 
firm will and self-control can do so.” 

“I don’t believe it, Anna.” 

She slightly shrugged her shoulders. The action said plainly, ‘ * I 
don’t care what you believe; it cannot alter fact.” 

“ Well, grant that an experienced woman could, a very young girl 
could not,” said I. 

“ Some might, and can.” 

“Not from all eyes, Anna, or at all moments.” 

“Eh bien! Monsieur honored me by asking my opinion, and I 
answered his question.” 

“Answer another, then, Fleur-de-Marie. Can a woman love and 
not know it, not be aware of it?” 

“A woman? no, monsieur, hardly; a young girl, yes,” said the 
Provengale, with a quiet decision that carried unwilling conviction. 

“How is that possible, Anna? the heart must know when it puts 
forth affection.” 

8 


114 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Yes, monsieur; but tbe heart can mistake itself.” 

Did she know how she was stabbing me, and ruthlessly treading 
'down my hopes? There was something in her dark eyes that made 
me more than fear she read me. Still, I braved it out, and fell back 
on a new position. What a fool I was to make myself miserable 
about her words. What could she know, a girl, a child of fifteen? 
I forgot that she was a Southron, and, besides, had for years strug 
gled alone with the world, face to face with life, in a stern enough 
form.” 

“After all, Anna,” said I, “what can you know about the heart, 
at your age? you are a child, and have yet to read it in yourself 
and others.” 

“Madonna mia ; in myself, perhaps, signor, but not in others," 
said the cameo-seller, with a quiet significance that startled me, and 
made me curse myself for saying a word to her 

“Vanity, vanity!” said I, trying to turn it off with a laugh, “ thy 
name is woman.” 

“ No, Monsieur Casper, but I know my own sex better than you do. 
Test it — ask the same question of Madame votre mere, or— Made- 
moiselle Nina.” 

I leaned back in my chair, feeling staggered, feeling that this girl 
read me through. I had made a false step which it was impossible 
to retrieve, and I knew it. I could not even cover my defeat, and 
sat silent till Nina came in, throwing her hat one way and her scarf 
another. 

“A thousand pardons, Anna-Marie, but I see that monsieur mon 
frere has been entertaining you. Have you been here long?” 

“Only about ten minutes, mademoiselle.” 

“What made you unpunctual, Miss Nina?” said I. 

“Oh, Theodora was chatty, and then Mr Claverhouse came in 
with the boys whom he had in his studio sitting to him, and then 
we got talking about Rome and the arts, till I quite lost note of time. 
He gave me a message for you, too, Fleur-de-Marie, to tell you to go 
to him at ten to-morrow morning.” 

“ I am always at the signor’s service.” 

“You are evidently a great favorite of his,” said I. “ What does 
he want you for, I wonder?” 

Without arresting her pencil, Nina answered me. 

“He is at work on a sculpture, a group of several figures, and he 
wants her for one of them; it is for this that he has taken Walter’s 
children.” 

“ Oh, is it? And how does he keep them still?” 

“He can do anything he likes, I believe, Cas; but he told me, 
laughingly, that Anna would manage them.” 

“With her witcheries, eh?” said I, disguising under a light tone 
the pain and fiercely vengeful passion which Nina’s speech stirred 
in me. 

Yet, could she love him and speak so frankly? — impossible. But 
talk, think as I would, Anna’s words haunted and troubled me— « 
“Rut the heart can mistake itself,” 


FALSE STEPS. 


115 


I rose up and left the room. I was beginning to fear this Prov- 
en^ale as I did Guy de Cavagnac. I could not remain still or settle 
to anything at home, so I ordered out my horse and rode into the 
Park — as yet empty — my blood and brain at fever-heat. A misera- 
ble-looking woman begged of me “a penny, for the sake of the 
pretty lady that loved me,” and I flung her one with an oath, and a 
rough “Go to the devil!” 

She stood and cursed me — “Be damned to you! there’s a devil in 
you that will drag you down to hell, where ye belong!” 

I put spur to my horse and dashed away furiously, nor did I slack- 
en till I came to the end of Rotten Row ; and then, as I turned back, 
I saw in the distance a coal-black horse and large black dog ap- 
proaching. I knew who the rider must be, for none but its master 
ever rode the fiery mare. I was on the point of escaping into 
Knightsbridge, when a sudden thought, evil as the demon that was 
in me, struck me. I would tell him that which would at once raise 
up his sensitive honor, an impassable barrier between him and Nina. 
I turned back at a walk, and we met. 

“Deserted your muses, Claverhouse?” was my salute, and I gave 
him my Judas hand. His, as usual, was cool to the touch, mine 
was burning hot, and he remarked it, glancing keenly in my face. 

“How hot your hand is, Casper: are you ill?” 

“ No, indeed, Stewart ; if so, it is from too much happiness. Con- 
gratulate me. I tell you, because you are one of the secret ones, so 
only repeat it to one as secret as yourself.” 

“ What is your secret, then? One of your jests, Cas?” 

“No, earnest. In a few months I shall have, I hope, to ask you 
to my wedding; my engagement has been long and secret, but the 
lady is old enough now.” 

“ Eh bien! I congratulate you a thousand times.” 

I was vexed. 

“You don’t believe me. You don’t even ask her name, Stewart. ,? 

“It is not for me to ask it,” he said, looking slightly surprised, 
“or necessary for me to know, unless you choose to say.” 

I dared not look at him. I could only cover my lie by assuming 
a grandiose air. 

“Her name, Signor Maestro, is Nina Theodora Lennox.” 

I glanced at him, but I could detect no change. If his hand 
closed like a vice on the bridle, I could not perceive it; if every drop 
of blood receded to his heart, numbing it with its deadly chill, the 
dark colorless face, the steady lip and downcast eye, betrayed noth- 
ing. To me his had always been a most unreadable face, and now 
more than ever it was $ sealed book, sealed so completely, that my 
spirit rose exultant, believing that I must have been mistaken. 

Blind, blind again! I feel and know now that the blow had 
gone too straight and deep for outward sign. The heart was 
numbed. 

At the end of the ride he left me. “He must go back to work,” 
he said, “to be ready for his ProvenQale, who was to come to-mor- 
row,” and I laughed at him, calling him the slave of his Art. He 


116 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


paused a moment, and looking back, said, “You, Casper, are the 
slave of your atheism and your pleasure!” 

Shall I never get his face out of my memory, or his voice out of 
my ears? 


CHAPTER X. 

THE COUNT UNMASKS AN ENEMY. 

* 

Guido di Schiara came one morning to the sculptor's house, and 
met Luigi in the hall. 

“ The Signor Angelo is in his studio, I suppose?” he said, pausing 
with his foot on the stair. 

“Yes, signor, but you can of course go up. Only last night he 
remarked to me, ‘Amico, it is some days since we have seen the 
Signor Guido.’ You will be welcome.” 

“ Is he alone?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then I will go up. Has the fanciulla Anna been here to-day?” 

“No, signor; yesterday the maestro had her here sitting to him.” 

The count ascended the stairs with his usual light, noiseless tread, 
traversed the gallery and anteroom, and quietly entered the studio — 
so quietly, that the sculptor did not perceive him. 

There he sat, motionless, the chisel still in his hand, the slight fig- 
ure bending forward, the beautiful head bowed on the marble at 
which he had been working, so still and motionless that he hardly 
seemed to breathe and live, till Guido’s hand, light and tender as a 
woman’s, was laid on his shoulder, and then he started and lifted a 
dark, haggard face. 

“ Angelo, amico mio, what is wrong? there are no secrets between 
us two.” 

Stewart rose up, putting him off. 

“Caro mio, I was thinking, idling, instead of working; solitary 
thought is most often sorrowful. I am glad you have come in 
See, the marble is assuming shape ; here is a drawing of what it will 
be. I want you to sit to me for this figure, holding up the child.” 

‘ ‘ I am always at your service ; but has your memory played you 
false?” 

“How — what do you mean?” 

“It placed before you, as by inspiration, the model for the most 
perfect figure of your most perfect work,” said Cavagnac, watching 
him quietly. 

The sculptor took up his chisel, and, chipping lightly at the mar- 
ble, answered, 

“I had rather have the model before me. Memory is a fickle 
nymph, and might not give me details.” 

“ She gave you every trait before, though, with wonderful faith; 
but then that was nothing less than an inspiration.” 

Claverhouse made no answer, but Guido saw that he paused for 


THE COUNT UNMASKS AN ENEMY. 


117 


a moment to steady his hand, and then he worked on in silence. 
He watched the chips flying off for a few minutes, and then said, 
carelessly, 

“By- the- way, have you seen Wolfgang lately ?” 

“Yes, three days ago, out riding in the Park.” 

“I wonder he does not marry. He would not shrink from going 
to an altar and through a service at which he scoffs, would he?” 

“No.” 

It was a very quiet “no,” and Cavagnac looked at him pained 
and troubled. 

“ Car’ amico mio, you are trying me deeply. You cannot put me 
off and deceive me, as you could one who loves you less. Some 
heavy sorrow has fallen on you; let me share it.” 

The sculptor flung down his chisel, and turned from the still mar- 
ble to the living friend. 

“Why should you? you have your own troubles, without sharing 
mine.” 

“For what else do I call you friend? for what else did the same — 
Angelo, do you think I cannot read youS why did you remember 
that child for twelve years? why are you, who have seen the noblest 
and most lovely, still wifeless, save for the memory of one young 
English girl, as liigh-souled and noble as she is beautiful? you love 
her — you have loved her from a boy. ” 

“ Guido, Guido, hush! that is past; unless it was a most foul lie, 
she will soon be Wolfgang’s wife.” 

Guido di Schiara started, and a dark flush rose to his bronzed 
face. 

“That atheist German!” he almost broke out — “that soulless, use- 
less pleasure-seeker, who has flung his freshness to the worthless of 
womankind, and buried his talents! who cannot know a pure and 
holy love! whose wife will be to him little more than his mistress! 
it is impossible. Who dared to assert it?” 

‘ ‘ Casper himself , he has been long engaged to her, he said. ” 

“ Angelo, is it possible or likely that Nina Lennox should love or 
marry such a man?” 

“No,” said Stewart, steadily, “not likely, but still possible; and 
how could I, how can I, disbelieve such deliberate words? how 
charge Casper with such a lie, so base and beneath him? With all 
his faults, he was never mean, never forgot that he was a gentleman ; 
in his wildest passion or resentment — and he is both jealous and re- 
vengeful — he never disgraced the name of St. Leger Wolfgang.” 

“I believe to my soul, then, that he has disgraced it now by as 
base a lie, told with as base a motive, as any one could wish, ” said 
Cavagnac. “I have watched him, and probed him, I think, to the 
bottom.” 

“So have I, Guido, and found in him something inexpressibly 
antagonistic, something nameless, but which I feel with painful 
sensitiveness, and shrink from as from a subtle and deadly poison. ” 

“ It is a deadly poison. Shall I give it its right name, its hideous 
deformity?” 


118 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


“Yes.” 

“You named it just now — jealousy.” 

The sculptor turned and fixed his large gray eyes full on Cav- 
agnac. 

“Ay, look if you will, hut I am right. It is true, though you 
only felt it, while I saw it; because you do not know your own 
powers, and how unconsciously you charm all who come within 
your reach; you cannot help it. You fascinate Wolfgang against 
his will, but he hates you for the very power which he cannot resist. 
Stay, hear me out. He is jealous of your genius, of your superior- 
ity, of your fame, which he has neither energy nor ambition to em- 
ulate ; and lastly, more lately, he fears you as a rival — for, after his 
fashion, he does love his cousin — and therefore has told you this lie; 
you see his motive?” 

“Plainly; if she is in truth his betrothed wife, I, knowing that, 
must in honor draw back. ” 

“Exactly. Of ail the men around her, his vanity makes him 
hold himself the superior — above their rivalry; but you, he feels ir- 
resistibly, are his superior, and the sense of his inferiority makes 
his jealous fear fix on you as his only possible rival. For Miss 
Lennox, she looks on him as her brother; she told Anna-Marie that 
he was ‘ son frere adopte.’ Angelo, he has played a false game and 
made a false step. Your dream is not broken — Nina Lennox may 
yet be your wife.” 

“ Guido, you are indeed a faithful friend,” said the sculptor, clasp- 
ing the Italian’s hand in his own. 

Guido di Schiara bowed his face and kissed those hands. 


MANUSCRIPT XXI. 

LOST. 

“ Day after day, day after day, 

No life, nor breath, nor motion.” 

So it was with me. It seemed as if my life had flowed up to a 
dam and stopped there stagnant; it seemed a crisis. There was no 
going back, no unsaying words spoken, even if I would, I had told 
a deliberate and unvarnished lie, of which I must soon stand con- 
victed, unless I made it the truth. I, St. Leger Wolfgang, convicted 
of a lie? Never! But it added another item of hatred against the 
man who had forced me to it. If I could have swept him from my 
path, blotted him out of the page of my life, I would have done it. 
I dreaded his personal influence, I feared to face him, to meet vthe 
clear, steadfast eyes, to hear the soft musical voice, and I avoided 
him for days; till at last, coming one night out of the Opera House, 
I suddenly found myself face to face with him and Cavagnac, slowly 
making their way through the crowd. The count slightly lifted his 
hat, foreign fashion, with his mocking smile, and, “Comment vous 


LOST. 


119 


portez vous, monsieur?” But Stewart, though he passed me close 
enough to speak, only bowed; and I saw his face in the lamplight, 
that it was stern and grave. I felt stunned. My eyes mechanically 
followed the tall figure till it disappeared, but I was conscious only 
of the dread that he suspected my lie, and so, even in the suspicion 
of it, despised me. 

Despised! and by that man, whose good opinion, whose affection, 
even, 1 had always coveted and valued so high. I was maddened at 
the thought; furious to see how much I cared, how impossible it 
was to free myself from his silent influence. I felt as if an invisible 
chain were gathering round me, and I fled home to my chamber to 
bed, hoping for oblivion in sleep; but sleep came not. Whether in 
light or darkness, whether I shut or opened my eyes, I saw that 
beautiful face, those deep, sorrowful eyes ever looking at me with 
that steady unearthly light which had always to me something 
weird ; and now, in the silent watches of the mysterious night, all 
the wild legends and traditions of my fatherland crowded into my 
excited brain, and I buried my face in my pillow. Was he, indeed, 
human, like myself? or — this man, with his noiseless step, his won- 
drous voice and beauty, and strange charm, such as I had never seen 
before or since, must have a secret spring, whose source was — ah, 
whence? I dared not, could not, find an answer in all my sceptic 
visionary lore. 

I slept at last, heavily, and it was Nina’s rich mellow voice that 
awoke me: 

“ Cas, you dear lazy boy, ’’she said through the door, “have you a 
mind to emulate the Seven Sleepers? It is long past ten, and Aunt 
Georgine has actually gone out shopping, or something. ” 

“ By Jove! send me up some coffee, and I’ll join you soon, Nina.”' 

She answered, “ Very well, Mr. Lazybones,” and went away laugh- 
ing. 

I would have avoided her, for I dared not trust myself ; and pres- 
ently I stole down to my own study, but she heard me, for she came 
in almost immediately, and stopped abruptly, aghast, as well she 
might be, at my haggard face. 

“Casper, my dear old boy, are you ill?” 

I turned from her, and threw myself in my easy-chair. 

“I had a bad night — I could not sleep; that is all.” 

“ It is not all; you look — I don’t know what like, for I never saw 
you look so before,” she said, kneeling down before me, and winding 
her fingers round my hand. “Won’t you tell me what is wrong, 
mon fr£re?” 

All self-control fled before that horrible word; all thought, all 
calmness vanished before the ungovernable tempest that swept over 
me ; and, hardly knowing what I did, I clasped my arms about her 
with vtild passionate words. 

“ Not that, Nina, or you will drive me mad. I cannot bear it any 
longer. Brother ! when my very heart is on fire, when I love you as 
no brother everjoved! hate me sooner, that I may win your love; 
have pity, and give me hope and life, or — ” 


120 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


“ Casper!” 

She flung off my hold as if it had been a child’s, and sprung erect 
with such a cry as curdled my very blood; with such a face as made 
iny head creep, as if ice-cold water had been poured slowly over it; 
such horror and terror and grief were in that nightmare face, as if I 
had been in very truth her brother. 

“Nina! Nina!” 

“ Don’t touch me!” She put out her hands with an almost fran- 
tic gesture, speaking in a low, frightened voice. “Let me pass, let me 
pass, for God’s sake!” 

But I threw myself between her and the door. I was desperate, 
and spoke with fierce desperation. 

“No, by the God you invoke! only as my promised wife you leave 
me. I love you, I cannot live without you ; I have sworn that you 
shall be mine, and that oath I will keep.” 

She interrupted me. Her face changed; as a scroll that is rolled 
away, the girlishness left it, and she stood a woman in the grand 
beauty of her dignified womanhood. I had roughly broken a dream, 
and closed forever the page of her girlhood. 

“Casper, Casper, you have, indeed, taught me a fearful lesson. 
Hush! hear me now a few words. I have loved you as a brother, 
God knows how dearly, but even then, from the hour I entered your 
house, there was a shadow between us, a want of something that 
I have since defined — that which has made you an atheist and a 
scoffer.” 

“ Nina, oh Nina, have mercy! Be my wife, and I will believe all 
you wish.” 

“Belief is not of man, but of God — not of the creature, but the 
Creator,” she answered. “ How can you, how dare you, profane the 
holiness of marriage? To you it is a mockery.” 

“ Don’t speak like that, Nina. If that is the only bar — ” 

“ It is not. I have loved you as a most dear brother, as much as 
if the same'mother had borne us, and that cannot change its charac- 
ter; but now, now— oh Casper, Casper, why have you flung it back 
on me, and broken my idol?” She broke down utterly, and covered 
her face, weeping passionately. “You have left me nothing— noth- 
ing!” 

“Is my love, my devotion, nothing? Is it nothing that I plead 
for your love as the only thing I value in life? that I must have it — ” 

“No — never.” 

The words fell from her white lips slow, deliberate, irrevocable; 
her heart never would be mine, but her hand should— yes, should be. 
The thought that in truth a rival stood between us roused my dark- 
est passion and fury, and I grasped her slender wrist with cruel 
force. 

“Nina, mine alone you shall be; no rival shall stand between me 
and my love. I have sworn it, and thus I seal it.” 

I clasped her in my arms, and stooped to kiss her lips, but with 
desperate, almost superhuman strength she flu^g off my grasp, 
sprung past me, and fled. 


LOST. 


121 


I stood like one stunned — stunned more by the force of the fierce 
passions that seemed consuming me than by her escape. How long 
I stood I know not, but I was roused by the shutting of the street 
door, and starting forward, I hurried out into the hall. 

“ Who was that who went out?” I asked a servant. 

“ I think, sir, it was Mrs. Mansell ” (the house-keeper). 

“ Oh, was it? Where is Miss Nina?” 

“ Up-stairs, sir, I believe.” 

I re-entered the study, rang for my groom, ordered my horse, and 
rode out. I rode wildly, recklessly, mercilessly, for the demon was in 
me, and urged me on. 

It was hours before I returned, and then my mother met me in the 
hall. 

“What! alone, my dear? I thought Nina was with you; but she 
must have gone to see Theodora. ” 

I staggered back, gasping, “ Nina not here, mother?” 

She drew me into a room near, and shut the door. 

“What has happened, Casper? tell me quickly. Suspense kills 
me; your face sickens me with dread.” 

I told her in a few wild, hurried words what had passed; she al- 
most wrung her hands. 

“What have you done, Casper? You were too violent; you star- 
tled the child and frightened her. She has gone to Walter. I will 
bring her back. ” 

But a sudden thought, a sudden terror seized me, and I followed 
her. 

“Mother, come here; look in her room — come, come!” 

She caught my alarm, and hurried up to Nina’s room. At a glance 
it seemed as usual; but my mother, advancing, called me in, in a ter- 
rified whisper. 

“Look, look! she is gone. Fly to Walter, and see if she is indeed 
there. Look here. ” 

One drawer stood open and empty. There was also a small cab- 
inet in which she kept her money and jewels — it stood open and 
empty. I saw no more, but hurried away to my brother’s. I must 
be calm now, and with a strong effort I asked the footman quietly 
for either his master or mistress. 

“They have been out all day, sir.” 

“ Oh; when will they and Miss Nina be back?” 

“ Miss Nina, sir! she wasn’t with them. She hasn’t been here to- 
day at all.” 

“ Are you sure, Richard?” 

“Positive, sir.” 

“Well, if she should call in, Richard, tell her to hasten home, as 
an old school-friend of hers is waiting to see her.” 

“I will, sir.” 

I turned back into the street, and stood for a minute. 

Can you imagine what I felt? My heart, my life, seemed to have 
stopped; sick, dizzy with terror for my work— yes, mine alone 

Where was Nina? 


122 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Then I called a hansom, and drove straight to F ’s private in- 
quiry office, where I saw F himself, and gave him every infor- 

mation and authority to advertise, or do anything to find the lady; 
only secretly, quietly, to avoid scandal. I told him that I cared not 
what it cost me, and asked what I should do. 

“Nothing, sir; only wait, and leave all to me. Send me the 
lady’s photograph — that is all. ” 

1 went home to my mother, and told her what I had done; and 
then — then, unable to remain still a moment, I went out; away to 
seek anything to distract thought, where I knew well. 

I entered ’s, near the Haymarket, but I might not have played 

if I had not met a stranger, a Frenchman, whom I had seen at 

Y ’s once before: and this man tempted me on, and I played 

wildly and deeply, as I had not played since my youth; but, try as I 
would, thought would not be stifled. It was ever before me in let- 
ters of fire — Where is Nina? Where is Nina? 


CHAPTER XI. 

THAT POCKET-REVOLVEK. 

The Count de Cavagnac sat reading the Times, not in dressing- 
gown and slippers, for he never troubled such articles; but dressed, 
ready at any moment to be on the move, ever on the alert. So there 
he sat by the open window, smoking a dainty cigarette and reading, 
when Auguste’s quiet face was put in, and Auguste’s quiet voice 
announced, 

“ Mademoiselle Anna. Will monsieur see her?’’ 

“Yes, certainly, Auguste.” 

The dark eyes lighted up suddenly, and he left the window di- 
rectly, meeting the cameo-seller as she came in. 

“Always welcome, caralina; you are never in the way.” 

The girl’s lips quivered, and her eyes dropped before his, but she 
said, in her usual quiet manner, 

‘ ‘ Merci, monsieur. I came so early, because, when I have any 
information, you like it directly. ” 

“Right; is it important, Anna?” 

“I do not know, Monsieur le Comte: you must judge of that. I 
am but the servant, you the master.” 

“Well, well; sit down there, my child, and tell me your story in 
detail — there is time on hand.” 

Time? Yes, time to look on the face, to listen to the voice, that 
were fast growing into his very heart, playing the holiest, sweetest 
music that God has given to man. 

“ Tell me, Anna,” he said. 

“Monsieur, it is not long. Last night I was out late from a 
theatre.” 

“Anna! Anna!” 


THAT POCKET-REVOLVER. 


123 


“Monsieur, I had Corsare.” 

“My child, can even his faithful guardianship shelter you from 
the bold gaze and insulting word of the roue?” 

The Proven^ale’s head drooped, and for a moment the crimson 
flushed over her brow, but it faded instantly; and she answered, 

“I am used to that, monsieur.” 

The man crushed a heavy sigh, and merely bade her “Go on with 
her story.” 

“Well, monsieur. I was walking slowly along, when two men 
came out of ’s. You know it?” 

“ Yes, well.” 

“They were before me. I knew them both, directly, and fol- 
lowed them. One was Louis Bonlieur, and the other Monsieur St. 
Leger Wolfgang.” 

“What the devil were they doing in company again?” 

“They had met in the salon-de-jeu. 1 followed them to the 
Quadrant, and Monsieur Bonlieur was talking constantly till they 
came to that tall archway that leads down a court.” 

“ I know it.” 

“He drew Monsieur Wolfgang just through it, and then I came 
close enough, under the shadow of a corner, to overhear them, as 
well as see, by peeping cautiously round. Monsieur Wolfgang 
looked haggard, almost wild, I thought. Bonlieur said, laughing, 
‘ Fortune was fickle to-night, and smiled and frowned on you twen- 
ty times.’ 

“ ‘ Curse her, and you too!’ You see, Monsieur Casper forgot his 
politeness. ‘ Why do you stop me here?’ 

“Bonheur said, to show him a pretty little toy he had bought, 
and did not like. He would sell it for two pounds; and out he took 
the pocket-revolver I saw him buy at Hurne’s.” 

Cavagnac leaned forward, deeply attentive, as Anna-Marie went 
on: 

“Monsieur Wolfgang examined it slightingly, at first. ‘He did 
not want it,’ he said, and then suddenly changed—' Yes, I’ll buy it; 
it might be useful some way or another, only it has got a mark — let- 
ters on it.’ ‘Oh, ce n’est rien, ce n’est rien, monsieur— it can be 
scratched off. ’ Monsieur Casper seemed too excited to think much 
of anything, and he took the revolver, paying two sovereigns for it. 
‘ The only gold I have about me,’ he said, ‘and they happen to be 
Australian sovereigns — richer, purer gold than ours, Monsieur Ga- 
vannier.’ ” 

“Gavannier, Anna? is that what he had called himself to Wolf- 
gang? That is valuable.” 

“Yes, monsieur; they stood talking a little, and then I gathered 

that they only met for the second time (the first was at Y ’s) that 

night in the salon-de-jeu, that Monsieur Casper had lost to Bonheur; 
and by his eagerness about the revolver, it seemed to me that Louis 
Bonheur was determined to get rid of too marked a weapon.” 

“Which marked weapon,” added Guido di Schiara, slowly, “is 
now in the possession of Casper Yon Wolfgang. Anna,” he said, 


124 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


with a sudden passionate force that startled her, “I would to God I 
had that man abroad! I would call him out and kill him.” 

The cameo-seller made ho answer, and Cavagnac paced to and 
fro for a few minutes, till at last he stopped, and said in his usual 
quiet manner and softened voice, “You have done well, as you al- 
ways do. I wanted but the name Bonheur went by here to unearth 
him and his sanguinary plots, and you have fitted in that link.” 

The Proven^ale rose to leave, with her gentle “Au revoir, 
monsieur.” 

He took both her hands, and his lips half opened, as if he would 
have spoken, but instead he suddenly stooped, and pressed his lips 
to the slender hands he held. 

“ God keep thee, my child.” 

She went on her weary way, lightened by the memory of his face 
and voice. 

And he covered his face and asked himself, “Can it be so? has 
this child crept into my heart, bearded man as I am, seared by the 
world?” 

Ah, Guido di Schiara, is it the first time or will it be the last that 
a child has crept into the very heart’s core of a seared, bearded 
man? 

******* 

Rather later in the morning, somewhere about ten o’clock, the Pro- 
ven9ale went to the sculptor’s house to sit to him, and just as she 
rang Cavagnac himself came up. 

“Ah, again, my child,” he said, as they entered the house. “Is 
Mr. Claverhouse at home, Grey?” 

“ He has just come in, sir, and gone straight up to his studio.” 

“ Come, then, Anne-Marie, he is waiting for you; we will go up.” 

Anna de Laval followed him up to the anteroom, and there paused, 
while Guy knocked lightly at the studio door. 

“Who is there?” 

“Guido.” 

“You may come in, amico.” 

Cavagnac started. His ear told him unerringly that there was 
something wrong. He could read the least change of inflection in 
that voice. 

“Wait here, Anna, ” he said, and went in. One glance at the sculp- 
tor’s stern and troubled face was enough. 

“ Angelo, what has happened?” 

“What has not happened?” said Stewart, sternly. “Nina Len- 
nox is gone, and it is Casper’s work.” 

“ Gone, gone? Ah, I can guess. The false, dishonored liar! tell 
me all.” f 

“It is soon told. I called this morning at Lady Falconbndge’s 
to fetch Alec for a ride, and I saw her looking so ill, that I asked 
anxiously if anything was wrong. She burst into tears, and told me 
the truth, as Mrs. Wolfgang had herself confessed it to her. Yester- 
day Casper spoke to his cousin. How violently and shamefully, you 
can guess, from the fact that she instantly left the house.” 


TEMPEST. 


125 


“Gran’ Dio! that child! Had she money? why did not she fly to 
Lady Falconbridge?” 

“She was excited, and naturally feared that her aunt, her guar- 
dian, would reclaim her. O Nina, Nina! and I not near, to save and 
shelter you from such unmanly cowardice! What will become of 
her, so young, inexperienced, and beautiful? Guido, it is almost 
more than I can bear. I dare not think.” 

“ What has been done?” 

“ They have employed F , and I went myself to the Times of- 

fice, to put in an advertisement for Lady Falconbridge, so couched, 
and in Italian, that only Nina will detect the meaning. I must find 
her; I cannot remain inactive.” 

“ No, nor I— it is my trade; but, caro mio, had she money?” 

“ Yes, and jewellery; and in that precaution there is some slight 
relief. She is young, but I know her well; and while she has mon- 
ey there is not such cause for immediate fear; but she, so cherished, 
alone, broken-hearted — oh, Guido amico, I would give all I possess 
to have her back in safety.” 

“Sophistry is no use,” said Guido, smiling sadly; “the heart 
speaks too loud; it will be heard. But we have a most efficient de- 
tective at hand — one I have tested — Anna-Marie. She read Wolf- 
gang long ago, and may be trusted. ” 

“ I know ; she has a sweet, tender woman’s heart, and her wan- 
dering life will make it easier and more likely for her to find Nina. 
With so many searching for her she can scarcely escape. Is Anna 
here?” 

“ Yes. Anna — come here, my child.” 

The girl came in directly, and as she saluted her dark eye went 
from one face to the other with a quick comprehensive glance, but 
she merely said, softly, 

“ Messieurs, I am at your service.” 

In a few words the sculptor told her of Nina’s flight, and what he 
wanted of her; he gave no explanation of his interest in it, for he 
read in her tender, gentle eyes that she needed none. She would 
have been less than woman if she had. 


MANUSCRIPT XXII. 

TEMPEST. 

Oh, those days of torture! they are burned into my memory as 
with fire. It was not so much the anxiety, for I knew that Nina 
was no country girl, open to every snare and deception. She had 
read much, and had mixed with the world, and observed it; she had 
been bred all her life in cities, and was not at all likely to fall into 
any danger, as long, at any rate, as she had money. But it was the 
storm and strife of my own fierce passion that wore me out, and 
seemed to be killing me by inches, 


126 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUPvSE. 


Why could her heart never be given to me unless it were no lon- 
ger free? It was not free. I knew it, felt it, and cursed the man who 
had dared to come between me and my love ; cursed his beauty and 
his genius, cursed the very hour he was born, and the breath that 
gave him life! 

Once I entered the music-room, where stood his wonderful work 
in all its grandly still and solemn beauty. Did its holy calm, its life- 
less life still the tempest? No, it roused it to unspeakable blind fury; 
the silent marble had a thousand tongues, for in every line, every 
grain of it, his great love was graven. 

The demon of destruction seized me in its savage impulse, and I 
caught up from the mantle-piece a large Indian tomahawk which I 
had brought from the States. It had in other hands killed savages ; 
my hands, more savage still, would have destroyed Art. I stood be- 
fore it, and lifted the weapon for the blow. How perfectly the mas- 
ter-hand had chiselled every line! how faultless every figure! The 
grandeur of the whole conception struck me with a sudden awe, and 
sent the whirlwind of passions back on my heart; the mightiness of 
genius stilled the demon, and my arm fell. 

“Fool that I am,” I muttered fiercely, “to shrink before dead 
marble!” 

Was it dead? Is anything dead on which Intellect has imprinted 
itself? 

A second and a third time I raised my hand, and again it fell. A 
fourth time I swung high the murderous weapon, desperate, deter- 
mined. It was descending. One second more, and the beautiful 
sculpture would have been defaced forever, when a hand caught my 
arm, and wrenched the tomahawk from my grasp. 

“ Are you mad?” said my mother, sternly, “ or is it a Vandal bar- 
barian of yore in the form of my son?” 

I turned from her without a word, and went out. Hours after, 
when I returned, the sculpture was gone. 

“ I have sent it back to the sculptor,” said my mother. “ I see all 
now, my son. It is better there than here.” 

Better indeed! 

Day after day passed without any news, without F obtaining 

the least clew or trace of the fugitive ; and he could not issue adver- 
tisements describing her, as I had put my positive veto upon the 
least publicity. I left to my mother’s smooth tongue and woman’s 
wit to account for Nina’s absence to acquaintance and friends. 

Stewart Claverhouse I avoided like poison. How could I face the 
man before whom I stood convicted of a disgraceful lie and unmanly 
violence to a woman ? He must know all, for Theodora had told him 
— she said so. “ He was their friend,” she told me quietly; “ he had 
asked her what grieved her, and she would not tell that man a lie 
for anything.” 

Did she know that I had done so? I avoided them all, for I could 
not bear their silent reproach. My mother alone took my part, and 
blamed Nina. “ The child,” she said, “was impetuous and ungrate- 
ful to behave so to those who had loved and cherished her; but she 


THE FUGITIVE. 


127 


will return, or at least we shall find her, and then, Casper, you will 
be no son of mine if you tamely resign her to this brilliant rival.” 

‘‘Resign her? no, never, never, to mortal man! She shall be my 
wife, or — ” 

I stopped, for I felt choking, stifling as if for want of air, and I 
left the room. 

Oh, if there had only been one softening womanly word or influ- 
ence! Oh, if I had only had such a mother as Cora Claverhouse 
must have been ! 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE FUGITIVE. 

The shipwrecked seaman cast on some narrow rock or raft, with 
the wide ocean bounding his gaze on every side, could hardly be 
more alone than Nina Lennox, when she turned that bright summer 
morning from what had once been her home, too excited to feel 
anything definitely yet save the wild impulse to fly, to hide herself 
away. Her first natural idea had been to seek Theodora’s protec- 
tion, but instantly there came a thought that she would be reclaimed 
by Madame Yon Wolfgang, her guardian. She did not know the 
law, and that her guardian could not reclaim her against her will 
without the intervention of law. 

She paused at the end of the street, to calm and collect herself, 
for heart and brain were dizzy. Pursuit would be speedy, and it 
must be baffled. Nina knew well — what beautiful woman does 
not?— that she was too marked and striking to escape notice easily, 
if at all. She drew her veil close, wrapped her mantle about her, 
and walked into Oxford Street, where she called a cab, and bade 
the man drive her to the London Bridge Terminus. Not that she 
had any intention of leaving London ; but if her pursuers should 
find out the cabman, they would be thrown off the scent. She did 
not know that one of those pursuers was a man whose whole life 
and very nature were detective, to whom failure was hardly known, 
to whom all her ruses would be as daylight, and whose search it 
was scarcely possible she could ultimately elude. 

It was still little over noon when the fugitive entered the busy 
bustling Terminus, and sat down in the first-class waiting-room, to 
think where she should seek a safe lodging; but she soon rose and 
went to the ticket- window to change some notes. 

The clerk thought she wanted a ticket, and said, 

“ Where to, ma’am? train’s just going.” 

“ Thank you — I am not going by train. Can you oblige me by 
change for two five-pound notes?” 

“With pleasure, ma’am.” He glanced at the veiled lady, struck 
by the sweet musical voice, and gave her the change, following her 
with his glance, as she went away, not towards the platform, but 
through the entrance. He noticed her dress, too, as some men will ; 


128 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


it was handsome, though simple, and in such perfect keeping with 
her high-bred appearance. She wore a black dress, of rich, soft 
cashmere, and a dark mantle, with a velvet cap and black net veil. 

Nina left London Bridge, and made her way towards St. Paul’s, 
keeping on foot, for she knew well enough that she might be traced 
if she took either a cab or omnibus; and as she walked along, she 
revolved the best measures for concealment. It would look strange 
enough to excite suspicion, wherever she sought lodging, to see so 
young and well-dressed a lady quite alone; and Nina knew it. She 
could not call herself a teacher of any sort, for her dress and air 
would belie her. It struck her suddenly to call herself a foreigner, 
just arrived in London, and for the rest they might think what 
they liked ; while she had money and could pay, she was safe. 

She passed St. Paul’s, on to Ludgate Hill, and then nature began 
to give way. She entered a baker’s shop and took some refresh- 
ment, not, though, forgetting the character she had determined to 
assume; and as she paid for what she had had, she asked, with a 
strong and well-feigned French accent, 

“Madame, can you tell me where I shall find a good lodging? I 
am only this day arrived here.” 

“ How many is it for, ma’am?” 

“Only myself. One room is enough; and being a stranger, of 
course I shall pay in advance.” 

The woman’s face cleared. 

“Well, ma’am, I have a room that I sometimes let, but it’s only 
got a sofa-bed.” 

“No matter, madame; let me see it.” 

The woman led the way up stairs to a front room on the third 
floor, very well furnished of its kind, though to Nina, used to so 
elegant a home, it looked very humble indeed. Still it was a roof 
— a place to hide her weary head — and she took it, arranged with 
Mrs. Harper to act house-keeper for her, and paid a week in ad- 
vance, giving her name as Mademoiselle de Val&re, Her luggage, 
she said, had not yet passed the Customs. She had all she needed 
in the travelling-bag she carried ; which was true for the time. 

But now she was safe. When she found herself alone, the pas- 
sion and excitement which had kept her up gave way, and she 
wept such deep, silent weeping as shook her from head to foot; and 
when the excitement and passionate tears had passed, they gave 
place to an intense depression and prostration. Now she could feel 
the full effects of the impetuous step she had taken. 

She stood alone — the past a closed page of her life, the future a 
dark, hopeless chaos. Casper had rudely, indeed, broken her dream 
and flung her affection back on herself; every sisterly caress, every 
frank, innocent kiss, came back now like stinging poison. He had 
done more; he had told her that she should be his wife in spite of 
any rival, and those words had opened the woman’s eyes to the mu- 
sic-book of her own heart— wondrously beautiful music from the 
hand of a great Composer, whose mighty genius cannot fall short 
of perfection. 


FOLLOWING TIIE TRAIL. 


129 


And in the silence and solitude she read the music that had been 
written there so many years ; she saw the face round which, uncon- 
sciously, every thought and hope and aspiration of her young life 
had twined “as the vine weaves her tendrils.” 

Oh Nina, Nina! womanlike, thou has deified a being, beautiful in- 
deed, but mortal as thyself, and given thy love, thy whole soul, to an 
earthly idol, forgetting that thy God is a jealous God, who will not 
give his glory to another! 


CHAPTER XIII. 

FOLLOWING THE TRAIL. 

Neither Stewart Claverhouse nor Guy de Cavagnac were men 
to let the grass grow under their feet. The first thing to learn was 
a minute description of the fugitive’s dress, and this the sculptor 
easily obtained from Lady Falconbridge, without in the least rais- 
ing any suspicion. He had only to call, put a few incidental ques- 
tions, and Theodora told him every detail. “For,” she said, “you 
may possibly see the child, and bring her back to me. ” 

The next step was more difficult, because Cavagnac, like Mr. F , 

was unable to advertise; but he and Stewart had this advantage — 
they knew Nina personally, her mind, and could therefore form a 
near guess as to her first movements. 

“When she left the house,” said the detective, “ her mind was in 
a most excited and agitated state. She will have hurried on for a 
little way blindly, probably towards a thoroughfare where the bus- 
tle and crowd would make her pause and think; her impulse being 
naturally to put space between her and Monsieur Casper, she would 
take conveyance — either an omnibus or cab.” 

“Probably the latter,” said Claverhouse. “She would know or 
feel that in the former she would attract notice: few omnibus pas- 
sengers are so distingue , either in dress or appearance, as Nina Len- 
nox.” 

“ You are right, Angelo. What says Anna’s woman’s wit?” 

“ Oh, monsieur, mademoiselle would take a cab without doubt.” 

“Bien — so I think; and she will have been set down in some 
crowded part. We must find out the said cab by patient inquiry, 
and with three of us we shall find the right one. Stewart, if Nina 
had been more calm she would have disguised more thoroughly.” 

“ Guido, Anna, offer what rewards you choose for information, 
only, for Nina’s sake, give Anna’s address.” 

“ Certainly. Allons done; we begin with the cab-stands nearest 
to Street.” 

The three parted company at the end of the square, and took each 
a different direction. 

Days passed by in futile search, and a week had gone by when 
one morning the cameo-seller came to Cavagnac. 

9 


130 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Monsieur, I have been to the maestro, but he was out, so I came 
here. I have found the cabman. ” 

“Ah, Sainte Yierge! then I have the trail. Where did he drive 
her to, Anna?” 

“To London Bridge Terminus, monsieur.” 

The count rose and took his hat. 

“ Diable! got into the crowd,” said he. “ N’importe, I am on the 
scent now, and shall not lose it. Anna, you must come with me to 
London Bridge; leave Corsare and the cameo-box here with Au- 
guste, and throw your mantle over that pretty Roman dress, while I 
write a line for the signor.” 

“Monsieur, I left a note for him with monsieur his uncle telling 
him what I had done.” 

“My child, you never forget anything: come.” 

She followed him from the house, but keeping a little distance 
behind him till he called a cab and bade the man drive fast to Lon- 
don Bridge. 

The whole way Cavagnac sat silent, and his young companion saw 
that his dark face was more anxious and grave than usual. She 
little thought that she, the poor wandering cameo-seller, was the ob- 
ject of his thoughts. 

At the Terminus he dismissed the cab and entered the station. 

“Now, Anna, I shall go first to the ticket-clerk, for he may have 
changed money or notes for her.” And he suited the action to the 
word, though he had to wait till the tickets had been given for a 
train just going off to Brighton. Then he astonished the clerk — the 
very one Nina had seen— by asking, 

“ Were you here last Wednesday on duty between twelve and one, 
or two?” 

“Yes, sir, certainly.” 

“Do you remember giving a ticket to any passenger answering 
this description A lady, very young, rather tall, and of distin- 
guished appearance, wearing a black velvet cap, and thick black 
lace or net veil, a black cashmere dress, and dark mantle, wearing 
also a gold watch and chain, and gold cross hanging to it, and she 
carried a black travelling-bag? Her voice, too, was peculiarly soft 
and musical.” 

The description tallied exactly. 

“Yes, sir; I did see and notice such a lady, but she did not take 
a ticket — only changed two five-pound notes, and went out that way 
again.” 

“ She said nothing, I suppose, about her route?” 

“ Oh no, sir; not a word, only that she wasn’t going down the 
line.” 

“Thank you.” He turned away, and said in Italian to Anna- 
Marie, “ I thought so; she is in London, and now to trace her.” 

“ How, monsieur? It would be easier in Paris, but here chacun 
s’occupe de ses affaires, and every one is so horribly free.” 

‘ ‘ Tant mieux, n’est ce pas ?” retorted Cavagnac, half laughing, as 
they went out, “We must ask the policemen who were on duty at 


FOLLOWING TIIE TRAIL. 


131 


the time in the neighborhood, all the tramps, and itinerant venders, 
et cetera ; any one likely or unlikely to have noticed her. Some of 
the little Arabs may have offered to carry her bag. So now we part 
company, and meet here in an hour and a half.” They separated, 
to pursue their weary and certainly somewhat hopeless work — to 
Anna entirely fruitless. She met Cavagnac at the rendezvous with 
a white, weary face, almost with tears of vexation in her dark 
eyes. 

“No news, Anna?” 

“ No, monsieur.” 

“ I have. She asked a policeman the shortest way to St. Paul’s, 
so there we must go.” 

Again he called a cab, and they were driven to St. Paul’s Church- 
yard, where they got out. 

“ By Heaven!” said the count, half laughing, “it is the strangest 
chase I ever had.” 

“Que fair£?” said the child, looking up in his face. “Monsieur 
is at fault.” 

“Not I, car’ arnica mia. She walked here, and by the time she 
reached the spot her excitement will have given place to faintness 
or dizziness, and she will have entered the first confectioner’s or bak- 
er’s that she saw. There are not many all down Ludgate Hill and 
Fleet Street, so we can beat them all— I this side, you on the other; 
we can signal each other. Allez done, petite.” 

She obeyed, and crossed to the other side, that on which, farther 
down, Mrs. Harper’s shop was situated. Each went unsuccessfully 
into two or three, and Anna was close to Mrs. Harper’s, when, look- 
ing across for her companion, she saw him stop and beckon to her. 

The girl crossed the road directly, in spite of the crowd of vehicles, 
and gained his side. He drew her under one of the many archways 
leading into courts with which Ludgate Hill abounds. 

“You were going to try that shop, were you not, Anna?” 

“Yes.” 

4 ‘ Bight ; you would have found her. As I paused, my eye scanned 
the houses, and at a window on the third floor I caught a glimpse of 
a face that I am positive was hers. She is there; but for her sake 
in every way, only you must appear. Tell her, at present, that you 
alone have tracked her, and try to make her go to Lady Falcon- 
bridge. Here is money, in case you or she need it. I leave all to 
you, trust all to you.” 

‘ * Merci mille f ois ; will monsieur wait here ?” 

“ No; all is safe in your hands. I will go to the maestro, and re- 
port our success.” 

“And to Madame Falconbridge?” 

“No; not till I see or hear from you.” 

“ Eh bien, and Monsieur Casper shall know nothing.” 

“Ah! Anna, you are wicked,” said Cavagnac, smiling; “but I 
wish his creole blood would make him mad enough to commit sui- 
cide. Adieu, mon enfant. Come to me as socm as possible.” 

“ Qui, monsieur, certainement, ” 


132 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


The count walked rapidly away, the Provengaie recrossed the 
road, and entered Mrs. Harper’s shop. 

“Madame, I want to see mademoiselle — the lady who lodges here, 
s’il vous plait ” 

Mrs. Harper looked at the stranger, puzzled by the contradiction 
of her dress and appearance, but her being a foreigner matched with 
her lodger’s story. 

“ Well,” she said, “ Madmosel de Val£re told me she would see no 
one — that she knew no one in England.” 

“But I have just arrived here, and she will see me if madame 
will kindly show me the way up-stairs, and tell her that her model 
must see her. ” 

Mrs. Harper called a servant-girl and bade her take the young per- 
son up to the French lady. 

Anna-Marie followed her closely, and as the girl reached the room- 
door, she put her quietly aside, saying, “Merci, I will not trouble 
you further, ” and entered the apartment. 

There sat Nina Lennox, her head resting on her hands, her eyes 
fixed on a book, no word of which they saw, so changed, that Anna 
paused, startled. Nina turned sharply, and sprung to her feet with 
a low cry. But the Proven^ale clasped her hands. 

“ O mademoiselle, que vous 6tes malheureuse!” 

Nina hid her face on Anna’s shoulder and burst into tears for the 
first time since the day she fled, and the Proven^ale let her weep. 
Her soft touch and silent sympathy soothed and calmed more than 
words. 

At last she lifted her face. 

‘ ‘ Anna, how did you find me ? Do you know all that has passed ?” 

“ Yes ; all. I tracked you step by step. Oh, mademoiselle, if you 
only knew the suffering your flight has caused! I do not speak of 
Monsieur Casper, or madame his mother, but your friends — Mon- 
sieur et Madame Falconbridge.” 

“I can’t help it,” said Nina, hurriedly. “If I go back, Aunt 
Georgine will take me. I am under age, and Casper — Anna, I can’t 
bear it; it would kill me by inches. Are they seeking me still?” 

“Yes; Monsieur Casper has placed it in F ’s hands.” 

Nina turned, and paced to and fro. 

“What shall I do? where shall I fly? He can track me down if 
you could. What made you do it, child?” she said, suddenly stop- 
ping. 

“ Mademoiselle has been kind to me, and my heart is grateful to 
her. I knew that when her money was gone she would suffer. I 
am used to struggle, and knew well, better than she, the difficulties 
and dangers which surround a beautiful and delicately bred woman, 
cast suddenly adrift, and I searched till I found her. Oh, signorina 
mia, go back to your best friends who love you ! The Lady Theo- 
dora will not give you up.” 

“Impossible! I cannot. Anna, English law will give me up. 
You do not know it.” 

‘ ‘ But, mademoiselle, pardon me. Monsieur Falconbridge told me 


FOLLOWING THE TRAIL. 


133 


that Madame Wolfgang could not reclaim you till she went to some 
court of laws.” 

“But she will succeed; she will go there, dear Anna. I know 
her. She will — no, 1 cannot return. I must leave here directly; 
you will not betray me. Go, go, child; I shall come to no harm.” 

“ Mademoiselle will not return to her friends? Eh bien, you are 
alone and friendless; so am I. I swear I will not lose sight of you; 
if you insist, I must go, but you will not escape my vigilance. If 
you will leave this — ” 

“ I must. I dare not stop.” 

“ Then, mademoiselle, come with me; deign to accept the shelter 
of my lodging. Humble as it is, you will be safer there, and will not 
be alone ; to wait on you and serve you will be a pleasure to the poor 
cameo-seller.” 

“ Anna, serve me! you are my equal in every way now.” 

The cameo-seller shook her head sadly. Equal! no, Nina had 
friends, and the faithful love of a noble heart; but she had no 
friends, no one to love her, no one she dared to love. 

“Mademoiselle will honor me by coming, then?” was all the pa- 
tient lips uttered. 

Nina, affectionate and impulsive as a Southron, threw her arms 
round the girl, vanquished. 

“Anna, what is there about you that I cannot withstand you, 
that makes me love you so well?” 

“ I do not know, mademoiselle; because I love you, perhaps,” 
said the Provengale, simply. 

“ Ah, Anna, it is true; love begets love.” 

Anna de Laval sighed ; she knew not herself why, save that for her, 
life stretched away a blank weary waste, with little of love or hope 
to lighten its dreariness. 

Night came at last, and then Nina Lennox went forth to share the 
humble home of the wanderer. 

“And now, mademoiselle, ” said Fleur-de-Marie, “I must go for 
Corsare and my cameo-box. I left them with an artist, to whom I 
sat this morning.” 

Anna de Laval, it will be seen, considered that the end sanctifies 

the means; and so she said to herself, as she made her way to B 

Street, where she found, not only Cavagnac, but the sculptor. 

“Doubly welcome, Anna mia,” he said; “we knew you would 
come to-night. Where is Miss Lennox?” 

“ Signori miei, you must keep her secret until I have her leave to 
go further. I have your word?” 

“Yes.” 

“The signorina is at this moment in my lodging.” And Anna 
reported faithfully what had passed. 

The two men looked at each other with such relief as only such 
anxiety as theirs had been can know. 

“What is the next step?” said Claverhouse. “Her friends must 
know of her being in safety without betraying her hiding-place; and 
she must be persuaded to go to Lady Falconbridge. ” 


134 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“I have tried already, ” said the cameo-seller, “but she will not; 
but I think I may finally succeed. I told her what the Signor An- 
gelo said about the law, but it did not shake her.” 

“ Tell her again, Anna; tell her that her aunt cannot reclaim her 
under three or four weeks, and that in that time she and her friends 
will have time to take some decisive step. Put before her, as you 
can, the practical impossibility of her remaining long as she is; her 
very name will suffer; her aunt’s story of her being on a visit can- 
not long hold.” 

“ I will try, monsieur; but if I fail — 

“Then, ’’said the sculptor, firmly, “Lady Falconbridge must see 
her.” 

“ You have put F at fault, Anna, of course?” said Cavagnac, 

with the quiet assurance that is sure the right thing has been done. 

“Yes, monsieur, at once. I asked Mrs. Harper to tell me when 
the night Dover mail went; we drove to London Bridge, took tick- 
ets for Dover, and then, slipping out of the Terminus, walked all the 
way to my lodging. ” 

“Angelo, this child is beyond price! And the mantle, Anna?” 

“ Oh, monsieur, I bought her a plain black one, which she put on 

as we left the platform, so Monsieur F will go a wild chase 

enough. See, Monsieur Guy, here are only five pounds of your 
money.” 

“It is the Signor Angelo’s money, my child.” 

“ Keep it, Fleur-de-Marie,” said Stewart, smiling, “ though it is not 
in money I shall pay you for what you have done. Now write me 
a line to Lady Falconbridge, to set her mind more at rest, and I will 
post it. Disguise your hand, and it will never be traced. ” 

Cavagnac opened his desk, and Anna - Marie, after a moment’s 
thought, wrote — 

“All pursuit after Miss Lennox is useless, as she is beyond it. Her 
friends may be easy about her, as she is staying with a faithful friend, 
who hopes soon to persuade her to seek your protection. ” 

This she enclosed, addressed, and delivered to Stewart ; then slung 
her box, took her dog, and went away. 


MANUSCRIPT XXIII. 

AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 

“Darker and darker 
The black shadows fell — ” 

— yes, on me, on all I touched, on all around. My mother did not 
soothe me : she only roused — ten thousand devils ! as if they needed 
that ! — my fierce passions and jealous hatred yet further. And to 
drown, to crush, their gnawing, vulture-like preying, I flung myself 
madly into every excitement and dissipation. 

For a week F was at fault; then he raised hope, only to dash 


AN ANONYMOUS LETTER. 


135 


it down. He had traced Nina to London Bridge Terminus, and out 
of it again, and then lost her entirely. Two days after, in the even- 
ing, just as my mother and I had gone into the drawing-room, after 
dinner, F was shown in, and almost his first words were : 

‘ ‘ I am afraid, sir, the lady has escaped us and got abroad. ” 

Then he told me his story. He had traced Nina to St. Paul’s, 
thence to a baker’s shop, a Mrs. Harper’s, in Ludgate Hill, where she 
had lodged for a week, calling herself Mademoiselle de Val&re, a 
French lady only just arrived in London. He was a day too late; 
think of that! I ground my teeth. Only the day before a young 
foreigner had come to her, but of her Mrs. Harper could give no rec- 
ognizable description. She had asked when the night train to Dover 
went, and after dark she and Nina had driven to London Bridge, and 
her companion took two first-class tickets for Dover, when they went 
on the platform. F had traced the lady and her foreign attend- 

ant easily so far. The guard of the Dover mail had noticed them, 
had seen the attendant open the door of a first-class carriage as the 
second bell rang, but he could not say he actually saw them enter it, 
or get out anywhere on the journey. There was no doubt that Nina 

had gone to Dover, and F had followed directly. But he was at 

least fourteen hours behind her, and he could find no trace of her or 
her companion. 

“ And I am afraid, sir,” he concluded, “that the lady has contrived 
to change her dress and make good her escape to France. Have you 
the least idea who her companion could be?” 

“ What was she like?” said I. 

“Well, sir, Mrs. Harper couldn’t say. Some people really don’t 
make any use of their eyes. She was tall, she said, as tall as her 
lodger — Miss Nina Lennox, you know, sir — and slight; but she wore 
a large dark cloak, with the hood drawn right over her head, and 
hiding her face pretty nigh.” 

“Oh, then she was not a lady?” said Georgine. 

“No, ma’am; not by her dress, at any rate. She spoke like one, 
the woman said; but, then, some of these foreigners have such a 
grand air about them. Then, sir, you can’t guess who she might be?” 

I had been ransacking my brains and memory. 

“ No,” I said. “ She knew no one who knew of her flight. She 
must have hired some girl to go away with her, so as to put us at 
fault.” 

As I spoke, the door opened and my brother Walter came in. 

“Look here, Casper — Oh, Mr. F , good-evening. Look here, 

Cas; read it aloud for mother. Dora got it by post, and I came here 
directly.” 

I read aloud : 

“ ‘ All pursuit afterMiss Lennox is useless, as she is beyond it. Her 
friends may be easy about her, as she is staying with a faithful friend, 
who hopes soon to persuade her to seek your protection. ’ ” 

“ Sir, permit me to see that letter.” 

I handed it to him, and watched him anxiously. He shook his 
head. 


136 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


‘ ‘It gives no clew, sir; none at all. The writing is disguised, evi- 
dently, and the postmark ‘ London 1 tells nothing, except that the let- 
ter was posted here.” 

“ Then,” said my mother, “ the writer is in London, and my niece, 
too ; she never went to Dover. ” 

‘ ‘ That may or may not be, madam. The postmark only proves 
that the letter was posted here.” 

“But can we take it as any relief to our anxiety?” said I, impetu- 
ously. 

“ Well, sir, my own opinion is, that you may. If you’ll excuse me, 
I never thought the lady in much danger of harm, because, from 
what you said, she knows w T hat she is about ; and -when h*er money 
was gone, and she found herself really adrift, she would come back : 
most do, sir, that run away like that.” 

I knew Nina better than to take such hope, but I only told him to 
do nothing more till the morrow, when I would see him, and he de- 
parted. 

“I tell you, Casper,” said Falconbridge, “ that you had better stop 
this pursuit if the child is ever to return to me, even ; to your roof she 
never will.” v 

“ She shall, as my wife!” I broke in, “if not before.” 

“ Oh, bah!” said my brother, contemptuously. “Don’t talk heroic 
nonsense, Casper. You know well enough that neither you nor law T s 
of guardianship can do much against a determined woman’s strong 
will.” 0 

A passionate retort was on my lips, when my mother touched them. 

“ Casper, forbear your temper, for my sake. Make her your wife 
presently; and, Walter, remember how a man pr woman suffers whose 
love is rejected!” 

“ I do remember, mother; I make every allowance, but Casper was 
unmanly to speak to the child as he did. Tell a girl she shall be your 
wife! he deserves to lose her; as he will,” he added, turning to go. 

“ As I will not , by God!” said I, furiously. 

“Eh, Casper,” said Walter, pausing, “you can swear by the God 
you disbelieve in and scoff at, it seems. ” 

He went out, shutting the door, and I flung myself on a sofa. 

“Mother, mother, there is a devil in me!” 

“Devil!” said she, with a mocking laugh. “ There is neither God 
nor devil! Will you stoop now in your manhood to these priests’ 
tales? Courage, Casper; you have sworn she shall be your wife. 
* Faint heart never won fair lady.’” 

This was my mother — this hard, mocking, atheist woman! my 
mother ! 


137 


ANNA WINS BY A COUP D’ETAT. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

ANNA WINS BY A COUP D’ETAT. 

“ What a poor weary wanderer!” said Nina, tenderly, as the cam- 
eo-seller came in one evening. “ What a dear, weary wanderer! Give 
me the box.” 

She lifted the strap off her shoulder, and kissed the patient, quiet 
face. 

“ Ah, Anna, while I had the power why would you not accept 
my offer? I never quite understood that refusal.” 

“Eh non, mademoiselle? Because I foresaw what has happened, 
and would not place either you or myself under an obligation to 
Monsieur Casper, of which both of us would bitterly repent. ” 

‘ ‘ Anna, you were right ; it would have been too much, and — but 
no, I won’t talk or let you talk until you have rested and eaten. We 
will have supper first.” 

Anna smiled and obeyed, taking care that Corsare had a plentiful 
share. Finally she sat down at Nina’s feet, with the dog curled up 
on her dress. 

“Eh bien, mademoiselle! and what would you say now?” 

“ First, Anna, drop all titles, at least when we are alone; we are 
friends, we are equals, are we not, dear?” she said, in her winning 
way. 

“Friends? yes; equals only in birth. You have friends; I have 
none, mademoiselle.” 

“Mademoiselle de Provence!” 

“Basta,” said the Proven^ale, lifting her fine head. “I will for- 
get, then, that I am a poor cameo-seller, and remember only that I 
am Anna de Laval, the friend and equal of Nina Lennox. Have 
you thought of the future — you, who have never known a rebuff, a 
harsh word, or an insult!” 

“ I could bear all that,” began Nina, impetuously, when the wan- 
derer shook her head with a sad smile. 

“I know the world better than you do. I know your hard and 
sensitive nature better than you do ; and I tell you, you do not know 
what it is.” 

“ But, Anna, ma ch&re, what you can bear I can.” 

“Gran’ Dio! do you want to suffer as I have done?” said Anna- 
Marie, suddenly and passionately. ‘ * Sorrow will strike you fast 
enough, even in the midst of wealth. You fled away under the in- 
fluence of intense excitement, of a mind stunned by a cruel blow ; 
but now that is past. What right have you to give such grief to 


138 


BAPTIZED WITH A CtJRSE. 


those who love you? to lay open to slander the fair name your fa- 
ther left you?” 

“ Anna! my name!” said Nina, starting. “ Who will dare to cast 
a shadow on that?” 

“ The world, ever so ready to stain a woman’s fame. Madame 
Georgine’s plausible story will soon be found out, and then the world 
will account in its own way for the disappearance of the beautiful 
Miss Lennox. Your flight was mad and impetuous— to remain away 
will be wicked. Go back; goto Madame Falconbridge and her hus- 
band ; they will know how to protect you from Monsieur Casper’s 
persecution.” 

Nina had stood looking at her, startled, fascinated by such an out- 
burst from one habitually so quiet and languid. 

“ Anna, Anna, how beautiful you are!” she exclaimed. “ If I go 
to Lady Falconbridge, I cannot leave you alone to this life of soli- 
tary misery, lost to the station to which you were born and bred. ” 

The cameo-seller pressed her hand on her breast, and her dark eyes 
filled, but she said, in her gentle, patient way, 

“I am used to it, cara mia. I have no claim on your kind- 
ness.” 

“ Have you not? All I can do — oh, I forgot, I forgot!” she said. 
“ What can I do now? and yet, how can I leave you? I should be 
haunted by the thoughts of you alone in this miserable room, or wan- 
dering in this great London. It comes home to me now as it never 
did before. Anna, you told me that the maestro—” 

“ Mademoiselle, mille pardons, not that,” interposed Anna, gently. 
“ Come, it is time we started.” 

“Not to-night, Anna, for you to return to this lonely room. I 
can’t do it! I can't leave you so, child!” she said, throwing her arms 
round her with a burst of grief. 

Bitter tears were in the wanderer’s eyes, but she firmly unlocked 
Nina’s clinging hold. 

“It will be worse to-morrow night; we must go now,” she said, 
steadily, and threw on her mantle, adding, with a faint smile, 

“ Corsare will escort us in safety. Come, arnica mia dolce.” 

Nina yielded, sadly and reluctantly ; and with heavy hearts the 
two young girls went forth, and took their way through the crowded 
streets, till Anna suggested that Nina should not go to the Falcon- 
bridges’ on foot at that time, lest the servants should talk; and then, 
calling a cab, they drove off at a speed that soon brought them to the 
house. 

Farther than that no entreaties could persuade the Provengale to 
go; she would only promise to come in a day or two. There was a 
close grasp of their hands, and they parted; the street door closed on 
Nina, the cab drove away, and the wanderer stood in the street, alone 
with her dog. 

She looked up at the lighted windows, and saw shadows crossing 
and recrossing, and heard a child’s joyous laugh ring through the 
open sash. 

She turned away, and slowly and wearily retraced her steps, 


A BLOW RETURNED. 


139 


How utterly cheerless and lonely the room felt ! How very bare 
and cold it was ! the very dog whined ; and shivering, sick with the 
miserable sense of loneliness and sorrow, the solitary child crouched 
close to him, laid her face on him, and sobbed herself to sleep* 


MANUSCRIPT XXIV. 

A BLOW RETURNED. 

As a burning-glass gathers the rays of the sun into one focus, so 
now all the feelings and passions of my life seemed concentrating 
into one point; a demon Was leading me on, and where would it end? 
I seemed borne on an irresistible current to a black gulf, into which 
I must plunge, down — down. 

Was Couthon right? is death nothingness? is all beyond the grave 
a vast blank? 

Why not? It must be! it must be! 

Oh, that I had died when I was a child ! Oh, that I had never lived 
to see this misery and shame ! 

Let it pass; let me go on with my story. 

A few mornings after the receipt of the anonymous letter my moth- 
er came in, her face flushed, her lips quivering with anger: I knew 
the signs. 

“ Casper, the battle has begun! Nina is at Walter’s. I have seen 
her; she came last night.” 

“You have seen her, mother, and not brought her home?” I said, 
setting my teeth. 

“Go and bring her if you can, ’’said Georgine, hotly. “I tried 
gentleness, persuasion, threats. I told her that you would live in 
chambers, but she interrupted me; she would not drive you from 
your home, and she would neither eat your bread nor set foot under 
your roof. I told her I was her guardian, and law would enforce 
my rights, and she answered, in that calm, dignified way of hers, 
that she, too, could appeal to the law, and obtain protection ; that re- 
turn here she never would.” 

“But she shall!” said I, striking my hand on the table; “by fair 
means or foul, she shall be my wife! Who was it she went away 
with— that foreign woman F mentioned?” 

<J Woman!” repeated Georgine. “It is strange that neither you 
nor I guessed who she was; and yet how should we? It was that 
girl, that cameo-seller.” 

“Damn her!” said I, furiously; “I will let her know of this the 
first time I see her; but for her, we should have had Nina now.” 

“ Casper, Nina must have told that Roman girl where she was, or 
how did she know ?” 

“ Ay; and I dare swear she planned that feigned escape to Dover, 

which, as it was meant to do, threw F off the trail. I’ll get the 

truth out of her.” 


140 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


I took my hat and went out, I believe, with a vague idea of en- 
countering Anna-Marie. How very different were my feelings tow- 
ards her now to what they had been when I first met her in Rome ! 
But I walked the streets in vain, aimlessly, to get rid of thought. I 
was coming along Grosvenor Street when I met Dr. Harrington. We 
exchanged a few words, and then, as we shook hands, he added, half 
smiling, 

“By-the-way, I have just met, near the Grosvenor Gate, that Ro- 
man cameo-seller whom you saw me speak to in the Gardens some 
time ago/’ 

“Oh, the Fiora di Maria,” said I, carelessly; “pretty creature 
enough. Good-day, doctor.” 

And I walked quickly on into the Park by that very gate. 

Almost the first person I saw was the Proven^ale, under a tree, ar- 
ranging her cameos and statuettes to the best advantage. 

She looked up as I drew near, and saluted in her graceful way, but 
her smile was wicked, triumphant. 

“Ah, monsieur, que la Vierge vous benisse!” 

“So, Anna de Laval,” said I, sternly, “it is you, is it, who have 
dared to abet Miss Lennox and conceal her from her lawful guar- 
dian?” 

“Comment, Monsieur Casper?” said Anna, opening her great, dark 
eyes, and shrugging her shoulders. 

“ I say that you, illegally, against law, have concealed Miss Lennox.” 

“Eh bien!” said she, coolly. “And was not mademoiselle safer 
with me than alone?” 

I was taken aback, but after a moment’s pause I said, still more 
sternly, 

“ I am not jesting: you have broken the law, and rendered your- 
self liable to punishment, if I choose to follow it up, as I will, unless 
you tell me the truth, which I have a right to know. Did you actu- 
ally go to Dover? did Miss Lennox make you her confidante, or did 
you find her out? Answer me all that, Anna.” 

“ Sainte Vierge ! monsieur is not my confessor, or mademoiselle’s,” 
said she, with her grand air. 

“Anna, I have spoken — ” 

“ C’est 9a, monsieur; so have I.” 

She did not even look up from the box she was unconcernedly ar- 
ranging, and my passion was roused by her quiet contempt, yet it 
was nothing I could lay hold of, for she veiled it under that courtly 
courtesy of hers which nothing could shake or vary. 

“You dare not answer me,” I said, grasping her arm; “ but I will 
take means to make you speak.” 

“ Monsieur must be very clever to succeed where even those who 
had real power have failed,” she answered, with the same courteous 
irony that always incensed me. “ Put your questions to mademoi- 
selle,” she added, removing my hold with her hand — such a small, 
delicate hand, that I could have crushed; and then, throwing the 
strap of her box over her shoulder, she called her dog, and gave me 
a parting salute and word. 


“she was his life.” 


141 


“All your law will not make Mademoiselle Nina return to your 
roof in any character; all your threats will not frighten me. Adieu, 
monsieur. ” 

“Do you think,” said I, with a cruel sneer, that I meant she should 
take in its most shameful sense — as she did — “Do you think I don’t 
know on whose protection you rely?” 

She turned and looked at me — such a look of dignified withering 
scorn as I shall never forget. 

“Monsieur Yon Wolfgang, you are an unmanly coward.” Not 
veiled under courtly French or graceful Italian, but said in deliber- 
ate, weighty English. 

I stood looking after her retreating figure as in a dream. My in- 
* suit was flung back on me, as I deserved, but I neither forgot nor 
forgave the blow. It was not in my nature. 


CHAPTER XY. 

“ She was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts.” 


It was two days after Nina’s return, and Lady Falconbridge had 
gone out driving with her children, while her guest remained at home 
alone; but restless, anxious, oppressed by a presentiment of evil, 
which she could not shake off, she found reading an impossibility, 
and had just risen to open the piano, when “ Mr. Claverhouse ” was 
announced, and the sculptor came in. 

“Iam very glad to see you here, Miss Lennox,” he said, gravely, 
as he held her hand for a moment. “Forgive me, if I say that you 
should have come here from the first.” 

“ I was wrong,” she said, trembling; “but I only thought of flight 
— to hide myself.” 

“In a most insufficient disguise,” added Stewart, half smiling. 
“You saw your aunt yesterday — will she enforce her claim?” 

“I am in hourly dread of it; she said she could, and would get a 
writ of Habeas Corpus ; Anna de Laval told me something of it. ” 

“ Anna a lawyer! That is a new character.” 

“She said that Walter told her, but he says he never did. You 
are smiling.” 

“ I told her, so that she might persuade you to return.” 

“ You told her!” exclaimed Nina. 

“Yes; the night you went to Anna’s lodging she came and told 
me; I saw her write the anonymous letter to Lady Falconbridge, 
and I posted it myself. Anna told you that she had found you 
out?” 

“Yes,” said Nina, trembling and bewildered, she hardly knew 
wl 



The sculptor rose, and stood leaning against the mantle piece, 
looking down in the sweet face uplifted to his, 


142 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“It was not she, clever as she is,” he said; “you were tracked by 

a far more astute and clever detective than F , my friend Cav- 

agnac ; it was a week before either he, or I, or Anna found even a 
trace of you.” 

A mist seemed to come over Nina, and she lifted her hands before 
her eyes, as if they were dazzled. 

Stewart stooped, drew those hands away, and held them in his own 
strong, firm grasp. 

“Forgive me, Nina; but I loved you too well to lose you, and 
leave you alone in sorrow.” 

There is, perhaps, once or twice in a lifetime a moment when ex- 
istence itself seems arrested by the intensity of feeling that is crowd- 
ed into that second, and the tongue gives all its language to silence. 

Nina lifted her eyes for a moment, and then bowed her face on 
the hands that held hers, but he drew her to his breast and held her 
there. 

“My life, my only love, my wife!” 

That holy word! that beautiful name! blessed indeed the woman 
who is enshrined in a man’s noble heart — his only love, his wife! 

“ I hardly know,” he said, presently — and his soft mellowed tones 
fell like sweet music — “ when I first learned to love you, Nina; it 
goes back to my boyhood, and has woven itself into my life like a 
golden thread, or a ceaseless strain of beautiful music. I saw you 
only that once, but I never forgot you; how could I? You became 
my inner life, my ideal, my poet - love, shrined in my heart like a 
veiled picture, an existence of the memory or a dream, whose strong 
influence tinges a lifetime. Years passed by, and I became famous, a 
master in my art, and then I fulfilled my promise given to my child- 
angel. I saw you, and the ideal became a reality ; the dream took liv- 
ing form and warmth ; and now the boy’s memory, the poet’s ideal, 
has grown into the man’s deep, changeless love. You know now 
why I have never married.” 

She took his hand and kissed it in a tender, childlike manner. 

“When I first saw you I was a little child,” she said, softly touch- 
ing his hand now and then, “but I seemed at once to understand 
you; your face, your voice, every word you had spoken, were graven 
on my memory. As years went on, though I never saw you, I heard 
your name, and I was proud of it; your ambition was mine, your 
fame mine ; your memory was never absent from me in childhood, 
in girlhood, in womanhood ; it was part of my being. I knew that 
you would keep your promise to the letter, and come back, as you 
had said you would, and when you did — ah, Stewart, if I had been 
older I might have known then what I do now ; my own heart was 
a sealed book; love for the man I mistook for admiration for the 
sculptor.” 

“Do you mistake it now, my darling?” said the sculptor, smiling. 

“No; the book is unsealed, and all its language is love,” she an- 
swered ; and the sunlight shone down on her golden head, and fell 
peacefully on the beautiful face she loyed too well. 


HOPE WITHERING FLED. 


143 


cc 




MANUSCRIPT XXV. 

“ Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed, ‘ Farewell/” 

My hand fails me before the torture of my self-imposed task, but 
it is too late. I cannot pause now; yet, if my story should be a 
warning that may arrest even one on the very brink of sin, the task 
will not have been a useless suffering. 

I tried in vain to see Nina; she would not grant my request; and 
then my mother, by my advice, wrote to Walter — she was too angry 
to see him — warning him that if he detained her ward after two 
days she would appeal to the law, and obtain a writ of Habeas Cor- 
pus, to which Nina must submit. 

This was his answer : 

“ My dear Mother, — In two days I will withdraw the protection 
I have given Nina, and yield her to her legal guardian. 

4 ‘ Y ours truly, W a lter F alconbridge. ” 

“ Ah ha!” said I, triumphantly. “ I thought law would vanquish 
him.” 

So I said and thought, and once more hoped and dreamed of a 
future when I should call Nina mine.. 

The second day came, and about eleven o’clock my mother took 
the carriage and went to fetch Nina; but I, too restless to remain 
still, wandered out, I neither thought nor cared where, and I felt sur- 
prised when I found myself close to All Saints, Margaret Street. I 
saw a good many people gathered outside, and two carriages wait- 
ing ; and as I came up I recognized them : one was my brother’s, the 
other Stewart Claverhouse’s. 

What were they doing there? I turned to a little Arab and asked 
what was going on in the church. 

“ A marriage, sir; we’re a-waitin’ to see the bride come out.” 

A sudden suspicion flashed over me, and put almost madness into 
me. I turned and strode into the church. I neither cared nor felt 
that a hundred eyes turned upon me. I heard nothing, I only saw 
that group before the altar. There stood Dr. Harrington in his 
white robes; I saw Walter, his wife, and Doctor John, and Guy de 
Cavagnac— I even saw Anna de Laval near him, saw them as in a 
dream, but there — there, no fancy or dream, I saw Nina standing be- 
side Stewart Claverhouse at the altar-steps. 

A lifetime was crowded into that moment ; it must be now or nev- 
er. It could not be that I was too late, and advancing to the chan- 
cel-steps, I spoke ; 


144 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ I forbid this marriage! the lady is under age!” 

For one second, for a space of time yet more brief, if that is pos- 
sible, there was silence ; then Stewart Claverhouse turned, and said, 
calmly, 

“You are too late; this lady is my wedded wife, before God and 
man.” 

That face, that voice — oh, that voice! would nothing destroy its 
charm to my ear? would nothing blind my eyes to the sublime beau- 
ty of that face? On every other there was triumph or exultation. 
I saw that mocking smile on Cavagnac’s sarcastic lips, but on his 
there was none ; calm, grave, almost pitying, but irrevocable, he stood 
forever between me and Nina. 

I dared not face him. I turned to my brother with mad fierceness. 

“You! false deceiver that you are! your word is broken, your — ” 

“Forbear, sir, ” interrupted Dr. Harrington, commandingly ; “re- 
member that you are standing in the presence of God, and hold, at 
least, some outward reverence.” 

I turned away. I remember leaving the church and passing 
through a crowd outside, and after that there is a blank. I can nev- 
er recall how I reached home, or what passed till my mother return- 
ed. I remember that; oh, I remember that! 

“And now she is lost,” she said, standing before me; “but there 
remains to you revenge. ” 

Oh, if she had laid my head on her breast, and let me weep away 
in tears of blood the awful demon that. had entered into me! too deep 
now for outward passion; such gigantic evil is calm above. 

I made no answer. I shut myself in my room, and sat down with 
my head on my hands, not thinking, scarcely even feeling; conscious 
for hours of nothing but the hell of passions within me, that seemed 
burning away my very life in their fierce fire. If this were what 
men call “hell,” then indeed I could believe it. 

“ I hate that man!” I said at last. 

Fed by such jealousy as few know, nursed now by the one relent- 
less instinct of destruction, it had grown with my growth, no thing 
of to-day called up by this last act, but a deadly upas whose roots 
went back long years. Had not this man from his boyhood been a 
living reproach to me? Had he not made me fear him, dread him? 
had he not even repulsed me tacitly? had he not been my superior, 
my master in everything, and taken from my very grasp the woman 
I loved? had he not been my rival all my life, in all things? 

It lifted its monstrous head in that dark night and stared me in the 
face, an awful thing of such hideous deformity that I shrunk down 
appalled. 

Did I know its name? did I grow familiar with it day by day, and 
week by week? did I hug it and cherish it, and never quit it, day 
or night, till it became my very life, and lost its terror in familiarity? 
Yes, I knew it now by its own fell name. It took possession of me, 
body and soul, and dragged me with it, down, down, down! 


A HEAVY HEART. 


145 


CHAPTER XYI. 

A HEAVY HEART. 

“ Good -morning, Cavagnac ; where have you vanished to this 
month ?” was the salute of Tom Dacre, one day, as he met the count 
in the Park. 

“To Paris, mon ami.” 

“Do you know that your friend, the great sculptor, returned yes- 
terday with his young wife? but of course you do. Why don’t you, 
too, take a beautiful English wife?” he added, laughing. 

“I will think about it,” answered Cavagnac, lightly; “indeed, I 
have already made a choice.” 

“No; are you joking or serious?” 

The count’s laugh puzzled Tom; under all its half -mocking jest 
there seemed a vein of something more deep and earnest. 

“Just as it pleases you,” he answered. “I will let you know 
when it is to come off. Come for a turn.” And the two walked on 
together. 

Neither had seen, or if Guy did, he took no notice of, a slight fig- 
ure standing behind a tree near; but when they were gone it glided 
away to one farther off, and sat down, covering the colorless face 
with the little slender hands. 

Scarcely more than a child in years, Anna-Marie de Laval had a 
woman’s suffering now. To solitariness the lonely wanderer had 
grown used; cast literally friendless on the world at barely twelve 
years old, all the ardent feelings and sympathies of childhood and 
early girlhood had been flung back on her own heart to die there ; 
love and tenderness had never crossed her path, and often she had 
looked on it in others with a sad wonder and an aching heart. 

Then there came a ray of light before which she bowed her soul ; 
the sculptor found her, and soon a bond of deep sympathy and af- 
fection bound the strong man to the solitary child. To her he was 
some infinitely superior being— in truth, II Angelo— “to her per- 
fect,” as she had said, “because she, at least, had never seen his 
faults ;” and the love she bore him was something different to, 
above, a human affection ; it was a pure and entire worship ; and 
hence Casper’s unmalily insult had fallen stingless at her feet; her 
answer had been dictated as much by indignant scorn for “ II An- 
gelo ” as for her own insulted womanhood. 

But with Guido di Schiara it was very different. When she first 
saw him she was no longer a child, though only fifteen in years; she 
was in mind, in feeling, in heart, much older; and Guido di Schiara, 
though his voice and intonation had drawn her by their likeness to 
10 


146 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


II Angelo’s, was not like him ; no— he was a man, and a very faulty 
man, and therefore nearer to her, more on her own ground. To the 
sculptor her soul bowed, as to some heaven-born being lent but for a 
time to earth; but this man had power to win her woman’s love and 
break her woman’s heart. 

Was it strange? he had always been so gentle and kind; he had 
so much of Stewart’s unconscious fascination and winning power, 
and she had so little to cling to and love, and was so very young. 
Was it strange that the very fibres of her heart, half child’s, half 
woman’s, had wound closely round this man, with all his faults and 
recklessness? Was it strange that, knowing the truth now, she should 
cover her poor, weary face in such an agony of shame and misery 
as she had never yet known, more desolate and alone than she had 
ever been before? and her first wild impulse was to fly every spot 
where she could chance to meet him; but instantly the fine, high in- 
stinct of pride and dignity crushed the thought as unworthy; she 
must bear, conceal, and suffer — the old, sad story, 

“For woman the calm and the pain.” 

A light step on the grass made her look up with a start. The 
Count de Cavagnac stood before her. 

“ Sorrowing, dear Anna?” he said, taking her hand, and his touch 
thrilled through her; “look up, and tell me you are glad to see me 
back from Paris.” 

She tried to look up and speak, but the heart was full and would 
not be entirely controlled ; the blood flushed over her brow, and her 
eyes filled. 

“My child, you have given me my welcome,” he said, gravely and 
tenderly. “ Tell me why you are so triste?” 

Tell him ! how could she? but she recovered her self-command 
outwardly, though voice and manner were a shade more subdued 
and quiet, as he saw. 

“Monsieur, I cannot help it,” she said, shivering. “ Sorrow will 
not always be chased away.” 

“No, indeed, God knows,” he said, bitterly: “but let that pass. 
You know why I went to Paris?” 

“Yes, monsieur; you told me that you had succeeded in arresting 
Louis Bonheur’s schemes.” 

“Ay, I have done that which I undertook, and it is my last pro- 
fessional detective service. I have left it, and stand here free. You, 
of course, have, as I asked you, kept Monsieur Wolfgang under secret 
surveillance during my absence?” 

“I have done so as much as possible, monsieur; but it is difficult. 
He has deserted his usual haunts, and shuns his former companions; 
he rides out, walks out, alone, as he never used to do ; he almost for- 
sakes the promenades of the parks for the more secluded parts. ” 

“ I had rather have heard of his going mad, the maladetto! What 
does he look like— his face, his air?” 

“His manner is that of a man preoccupied,” answered the Pro- 
ven9ale. “He looks gloomy, down - looking, haggard ; every line 


A HEAVY HEAKT. 


147 


that dissipation had drawn and time smoothed over is brought out 
and stamped afresh. Several times I have thrown myself across his 
path, quite by chance, and saluted him; he has started, stared like 
one roused from a nightmare, and walked on. ” 

“Without a word, Anna? He used to speak to you.” 

“He used to, monsieur.” 

There was a slight hesitation in her accent, a droop of the eye, an 
uncontrollable flush, that for a second crimsoned the colorless face, 
that struck Cavagnac directly. His brow darkened and he laid his 
hand on her shoulder. 

“Anna, you are keeping something from me that I must know.” 

“Non, monsieur; je ne — ” 

“ Tiens ! why did you hesitate and color, and shrink from my 
gaze? You are trembling now. Anna, that villain has insulted you, 
and by Heaven he shall answer to me for it!” 

“ For the Madonna’s sake, no, monsieur! let it rest; it was nothing.” 

“I will be judge of that! Tell me the truth, Anna, or I will have 
it out of him.” 

She shrunk from his touch, and her lips quivered painfully as she 
said, in a low voice, 

“It was after mademoiselle’s return he met me, and tried, b) r per- 
suasion and threats of law, to make me tell him about her. I refused, 
and told him all his law would not force mademoiselle to return or 
frighten me; and he answered, with a look and a sneer that no wom- 
an could mistake, ‘ Do you think I don’t know on whose protection 
you rely?’ I turned, and told him deliberately, ‘Monsieur Yon 
Wolfgang, you are an unmanly coward!’” 

“Curse him for a dastard! he shall answer for his insult!” said 
Guido di Schiara, setting his teeth. “Dishonored villain, to take 
advantage of one he believed a defenceless stranger!” 

“Who is defenceless, saye by her own dignity,” said Anna de 
Laval, firmly; “and for my sake monsieur must let that be my sole 
protection, and pass by the insult for what it is worth; Monsieuf 
Casper would ask nothing better than such a handle. The Counj, 
de Cavagnac cannot take up the defence of a wandering Roman cam- 
eo-seller without injuring her.” 

It was a bitter truth, beyond doubt or denial ; and he ground his 
teeth and turned from her, too deeply wounded and pained by the 
sight of that patient, weary face, and the consciousness that he had 
no power to protect her— this girl, almost child, he loved so deeply, 
whose very youth and utter friendlessness bound her yet closer to 
his heart. 

It was many minutes before the man could control and crush 
down the world of bitter feeling, and the strong impulse to claim at 
once the right of his strong love to shelter her. But something at 
present still stronger held him back, and he turned to her with his 
usual calmness — 

“You are right, Anna; this time I will pass it by, for your sake.” 

“Mille graces, monsieur,” she said, gratefully ; “but what think 
you pf my report?” 


148 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


‘ 4 Anna, it gives me strange disquietude and anxiety. He is brood- 
ing mischief, for I tell you there is a fiend somewhere in his athe- 
ist’s soul.” 

“Eh bien, he must still be under surveillance ,” said the cameo- 
seller. 

“ Mine, not yours, Anna-Marie.” 

“Both, monsieur, s’il vous plait. I owe the Signor Maestro more 
than I can ever repay.” 

Cavagnac looked in her face and gave way. 

“ Watch him, then; but, mark me, there must be no opportunity 
for a second insult.” 

“Non, monsieur.” 

“ I, too, will watch him at hours and places where you cannot; so 
for the present, Anna mia, adio. ” 

“Adio, Signor Guido.” 

He held her hand closely for a moment, and then walked rapidly 
away. 

The wanderer watched him out of sight through blinding tears, 
and slowly took her weary way back to the crowded streets of 
mighty London. 


MANUSCRIPT XXVI. 

CLAVERHOUSE OF ERNESCLIFFE. 

Ernescliffe Hall ! There before me rose the stately ancestral 
home of the proud and gifted race of Claverhouse. Even in this he 
passed me. Could Stone Heath Grange boast such a commanding 
site, placed on the summit of a height abruptly terminating on one 
side in a precipitous and rocky descent to the sea, and surrounded 
by a noble park stretching away inland almost to the outskirts of 

the busy and considerable town of D ? No, this ancient pile 

and family dwarfed the St. Legers and their humble Grange indeed. 

I stood gazing on the scene from an elevated point of cliff, so rapt 
in my own fierce dark thoughts that I did not hear a step approach 
and stop ; but a shadow fell across me, and with a start I looked 
round. 

Just seating himself on a mound of grass was a venerable, white- 
headed old man, looking to me something like a very superior 
farmer. 

“Good-morning, sir,” he said, with a courtesy which no gentle- 
man could have passed. “You are a stranger here, I suppose ? What 
do you think of that place up there — Ernescliffe Hall?” He pointed 
towards it, and sweeping his hand round, added, ‘ ‘ Most all the land 
you see, sir, belongs to the Claverhouses.” 

“Ay; does it, indeed?” said I, well pleased to have within reach 
possibly more about this family than I had ever been able to obtain, 
“You know the family well, then, friend?” 


CLAVERIIOUSE OF ERNESCLIFFE. 


149 


“Yes, sir. I’m seventy-two come next Halloween, and I and my 
forefathers have been their tenants for centuries. Why,” said he, 
resting his hands on his stout oak stick, ‘ ‘ I can remember the grand- 
father of the present lord.” 

“Present ‘lord!’ ” said I, in surprise. 

“Your pardon, sir; it’s what we call ’em. They’re lords of the 
manor.” 

“I see. Then you knew the present lord’s father, too?” 

“Ay, ay, sir. I mind his birth, for I was thirteen years old. He 
had a long minority, which is generally a bad thing. ” 

“Very bad; was it so here?” 

“ No, sir; for there was a guardian who knew what he was about, 
and then the young man, Graham Claverhouse, was very clever — 
they’re a clever race, sir, and always have been.” 

“ I have seen a portrait of him in London; a handsome man.” 

“They’ve always been a handsome house, sir.” 

“Was he liked here?” said I. 

“It would be hard to say, sir. He was, in his earlier life, till he 
fell in love with a lady who refused him. He was still under age, 
but it altered him, I think, and brought out a latent, stern harshness 
of temper that brought about mischief afterwards. ” 

I was getting very much interested, and as he paused I said, 

“Mischief! Then there have been troubles?” 

“Eh, where is there not, sir? Well, the young master went away 
and never came near the place for three years, and then he brought 
home a bride, a young thing of seventeen— Cora Egmont, daughter 
of Sir Guy Egmont. She was, sir, the most beautiful woman I ever 
saw, and as good as she was lovely, and accomplished ; but she wasn’t 
happy, sir, for all that : beauty and wealth and high blood don’t make 
happiness, sir.” 

Did I need telling that? 

“Wasn’t her husband kind to her then?” I asked. 

“She had everything, sir, but his love; and, besides, he wasn’t 
kind to her about the children. It seems like yesterday that the 
heir was born up there, in a room facing the sea.” 

“Here?” said I. “I understood that Mr. Stewart was born in the 
family house in London.” 

“He was, sir; oh yes, he was; but the heir was born here. Mr. 
Stewart isn’t the eldest born; he’s the fourth and youngest.” 

“I suppose, then, that the mother was happier after her son’s 
birth?” 

“Ah, sir, no; it’s a sad story.” 

“Poor thing! he died young, I suppose?” 

“Young, sir, but not in infancy. He was christened, sir, down 
yonder in Ernescliffe Church, after her father, Guy Egmont. How 
she loved that boy !” 

“Was he handsome?” 

“He came of a handsome house, sir, on both sides. He was a 
princely boy — one, too, you might lead, but never drive ; a wild, 
bold, high-spirited boy, that nothing could tame and nobody manage 


150 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


but his mother. His father hadn’t a notion of anything but the old- 
fashioned, imperious, harsh system of training, and wouldn’t hear 
of any other; it was spoiling him, he said. But his way was ruinous 
to a temper like Guy’s, and at last it came to an open defiance, about 
some trifle, too, which made it wofse.” 

“ What age was the boy then?” 

“About eight years old, sir, though he looked older.” 

“Were there no other children?” 

“ Two, sir; twin girls of five years old. But about the son — ” 

“Yes; tell me how it ended.” 

“It was worse, sir, after that; and then I fancy myself his temper 
got more harsh, and he grew jealous of his wife’s influence and love 
for the boy. He sent him to a public-school.” 

“Well; but that w T as right enough,” observed I. 

“Yes, sir; but it wasn’t right to tell the mother and son that she 
spoiled him, and taught him rebellion, and that he should not see 
her in vacation. Strange, sir, that some men, clever and educated, 
never will learn how to manage a gentle woman and high-spirited 
boy.” 

“Very strange; but go on. I am interested in your story.” 

The old man was pleased, and went on : 

“ Well, he went gladly, for his was a wild, roving nature, always 
loving change. Mr. Graham, he kept his word, and in his vacation 
took his wife and girls to Paris ; and young Guy, he kept his word 
to himself. He was sent down here with a tutor, but he eluded him, 
and actually made his way to Paris, though he was only nine years 
old, and saw his mother. I’ve heard the nurse say there was a ter- 
rible scene between the boy and his father. He wouldn’t hear the 
poor mother, though she knelt to him ; he must and would be mas- 
ter ; and he sent Guy to a college or school somewhere in Italy, I 
think ; anyway, somewhere right abroad ; and he didn’t come home 
again for a long time. Then the eldest girl, Miss Cora, took cholera 
— it was a bad cholera year — and died, and her twin-sister, Miss Ela, 
pined and drooped by inches; the mother’s heart was broken, I’m 
sure, with so much trouble. Then the second son, Stewart Graham, 
was born, and Mrs. Claverhouse was so ill that the master telegraphed 
to Italy for Mr. Guy, who was only ten years old.” 

“ And was he in time? poor boy!” 

“Yes, sir; she lived a week after he got home; and I think her 
death nearly broke the child’s heart. He told me afterwards, one 
night that I found him lying on her grave, that she had made him 
promise to love and cherish his brother; and, good Lord, sir, how he 
did love that little child! Who could help it?” 

Again the old man paused and wiped his eyes before he went 
on: 

“Then Miss Ela died, and Mr. Guy was sent again to the English 
public - school, coming home in the holidays. But his father was 
worse, and now there was no one to stand between them ; and, be- 
sides, I always thought he suspected her charge to Guy, and was 
jealous of the love he bore his younger brother. Stewart, too, was 


CLAYERIIOUSE OF ERNESCLIFFE. 


151 


his father^ favorite; and at last one day, when lie was about four 
years old, and Guy fourteen, he let out, in one of his passions of 
anger for some of Guy’s reckless defiances, the wish that Stewart 
had been born the heir. I heard him, for I was in the next room 
waiting to pay my rent, which he always received himself. Mr. Guy 
never answered, but the next morning he was missing. Every search 
was made, but in vain; and at last the master offered £1,000 for any 
news of him, living or dead, advertising in the Times. A month 
after it was answered by one of the police authorities in Paris, in- 
forming him that a lad answering the description given in appear- 
ance and clothing, with a pocket-book bearing the name of ‘ Guy 
Egmont Claverhouse of Ernescliff e, ’ had died of a virulent fever in 
a low lodging-house in Paris. The master was like mad, and went 
over; but it was too late, sir. He told me himself that he found the 
house empty, the people gone, and aftl he could learn was that the 
dead boy had been buried in an obscure corner of some cemetery, 
without any stone. He never recovered the blow, sir — never; the 
; remorse killed the master.” 

“But he lived,” said I, “till thirteen or fourteen years ago?” 

“Ay, sir; a ghost, a hermit, a broken, miserable man lived shut up 
tfhere; and at last couldn’t even bear the only child left him. When 
he was still a child Mr. Stewart was sent abroad to be brought up. 
Ye see, sir, he reminded him so of the dead son, child as he was, and 
his mother’s image, too.” 

“ Was he like Guy, then?” 

“ Well, sir, it was singular; not in face so much he wasn’t, but his 
voice and his hands were like him; they both had their mother’s 
beautiful hands and voice. ” 

I started, struck by the coincidence. I had met a man who in 
those two points was like the sculptor. 

“So that,” I said, “is why Mr. Stewart was sent abroad: he is 
more foreign than English, friend. I suppose, so little as he has 
been seen here, he is looked upon as a stranger — unknown?” 

“Oh no, sir; no, indeed. He is perfectly idolized by his people. 
As a boy, he used to spend his vacation in England mostly, and 
partly here.” 

“But till this summer he has been twelve years abroad— away 
from here ; and tenants don’t like a landlord who never comes near 
them, and leaves his affairs to agents. ” 

“Not generally, sir; but the master isn’t an ordinary man, nor did 
he leave us to ordinary agents. In his absence his grand-uncle, Dr. 
Fantony, who was his guardian, mostly lived here, and took as much 
care of the property and people as the owner could have done — a 
fine old man, sir — Doctor John, we called him.” 

“I was at his school,” said I, “at the time that the master was 
there.” 

“You were, sir! Then you know him? He is just married— five 
or six weeks back, it was.” 

I had brought this blow upon myself, and I turned the subject off 
hastily. 


152 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ Yes, I know. Are visitors admitted to see the Hall, the picture- 
gallery, and sculptures?” 

“ They used to be, sir, at certain times, for it’s a famous gallery; 
but it is shut up now for the present, while they are getting ready to 
receive the master’s young wife; they’re coming when the London 
season is over.” 

I had learned all that Stewart and Doctor John had never spoken 
of; no wonder. It was a sad and painful story; and now, fearful of 
hearing about that marriage, I took my leave of the old man and of 
Ernescliffe. Had I any wish to cross its threshold? I! with that 
fell thing that had sent me there! with the demon whispering ever 
in my ear ! 1 dared not. Some shadow of my former self made me 
shrink from such desecration. The towering forest-trees, the vast 
ocean before my eyes, appalled me, and I fled from their presence as 
if the very waters saw it written on my face, and I fled away back 
to the crowded city. I had sought solitude before now, now I began 
to fear it, to fear to be alone with myself. No, not myself, but it ! 


CHAPTER XVII. 

MY MOTHER’S PORTRAIT. 

“What, Angelo mio ! at work and alone, with only Fidelio ? 
Where is the bella Signora Nina?” 

“She is sitting at the feet of Gamaliel,” answered the sculptor, 
looking up, and exchanging his chisel for Guido’s hand. She is 
reading to the doctor now, but they will give me a call presently. 
See, Guido, I have brought that in here, and hung it where I see it 
best — my mother’s portrait.” 

The Italian turned and stood gazing up at it, repeating, half to 
himself, the last words — “My mother’s portrait, my mother’s por- 
trait;” but his breast heaved, and he walked to the window, silently 
mastering himself. 

“You never knew her, Angelo?” he said, at last. 

“Never,” said the sculptor, sadly. “ She died when I was born.” 

“And your father was not fond of you?” 

Stewart shivered. “No; he had not loved my mother.” 

“Can you remember your elder brother, whose unhappy story 
you told me long ago?” 

“I was barely four when he died; but I have a curious, dream- 
like memory of a brother I loved and clung to the night he ran 
away, and nothing will ever persuade me that it was a dream. He 
came to my little bed and wept over me, as only a broken heart can 
weep, and whispered that while he had life he would keep his pledge 
to our mother.” 

Stooping low over the dog, Guido di Schiara said, 

“He kept his pledge strangely, to run away and leave his charge.” 


MY MOTHER’S PORTRAIT. 


153 


44 Amico mio, not even you must speak one word against him.” 

“What!” said the other, lifting himself, with a sudden gleam in 
his dark eyes; “do you, then, love his mere memory so much?’" 

Stewart looked up, hut that face baffled even him. 

“Yes; have you never worshipped a memory?” 

“God knows — yes; my mother’s” was the answer; then a quiet 
question : 

“Angelo, do you love the dead brother more than the living 
Guido?” 

The sculptor dropped the chisel and held out his hand. 

“No; dead or living, I could not give him greater love than I bear 
you. Ah, Guido, why did you ever let me mourn your death for 
more than twelve years?” 

For one moment the Italian seemed to hold his very breath ; then 
he laid his hands on Stewart’s shoulder, and looked straight into the 
deep, sorrowful gray eyes. 

4 4 Swear by all you love most, living and dead, by all you hold sa- 
cred, to keep my secret.” 

“I swear!” 

Guido di Schiara laid his hand on Stewart’s, and drew him to the 
picture of Cora Claverhouse ; and, like an echo of his own voice, 
three soft words fell on the sculptor’s ear; 

4 4 My mother’s portrait.” 

The sculptor turned, and looked in the dark, foreign face. 

“ Guido, my brother! my mother’s son!” 

Those strong hands were locked in an iron clasp, and the face of 
the younger brother was bowed on the breast of the elder. 

There stood the two sons before the portrait of the dead mother, 
whose heart had broken long ago. 

44 Have I kept my word to her? have I not loved you? do I not 
love you better than life?” the elder said at last, brokenly. 

Stewart lifted his beautiful face and smiled ; that face and smile 
his mother’s over again: so like, that it broke down the remaining 
self-control of Egmont Claverhouse. 

“Oh, Stewart, Stewart! you are too like her! you have made me 
tell you what should have died with me. I have dreaded this for 
years; the fear of it made me an exile from you, the only one I 
loved, for nearly thirteen years.” 

“Guido—” 

44 Yes, call me so; the name you have loved me by, more dear and 
familiar than my own; to you alone your brother; to the world the 
Italian Guido di Schiara, the name I have borne so long and will 
bear to my grave. ” 

The sculptor started. 

“ Was that your secret? No, before Heaven, Guido, you are the 
elder, and must reassume the rights of the first-born. You are 
Claverhouse of Ernesclilfe; not I, the youngest.” 

44 Angelo, you cannot break your oath. You swore by the moth- 
er who bore us both, by all you hold sacred, and I hold you to it. 
I voluntarily and gladly resigned my birthright to you when I was 


154 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


but fourteen. Guy Claverhouse died, and to the world is dead for- 
ever ; and under the same seal I will trust the secret to your wife and 
Doctor John* but — nay, hear me out,” he said, laying his slender 
hand on his brother’s shoulder. “ I swear solemnly, before Heaven, 
that the hour in which tlic secret of the rights I have resigned pass- 
es your lips, will be the last hour you will see my face on this side 
the grave. I have sworn, and you know me, that I will keep that 
oath, cost me what it may. Mine has been a life of sorrow and 
trouble, and it should not be your hand that exiles me forever from 
the little I love.” 

4 But, Guido, Guido,” pleaded the younger brother, deeply trou- 
bled, ‘ Uiow can I live, knowing that I am doing you and yours such 
injustice?” 

“Me and mine?” repeated the other. “I have no ‘mine’ save 
you. There is neither man nor woman who cares whether I live or 
die; no being whom I care about, if that were all.” 

“All? you, too, will marry; perhaps have children,” said Stewart; 
“and then — ” 

A sudden shadow fell on Guido’s handsome face. 

“ If ever I marry,” he said, “my wife must be content to rank as; 
Countess di Schiara.” 

“But, Guido — ” 

“Basta, basta! you are paining me, fratello mio. Once and for 
all, is it peace or war? must I go, or remain on my own terms?” 

“Remain on any terms,” was the answer; “to part forever, to* 
know you were living, and separated hopelessly, would be more than; 
either of us could bear.” 

“ It would, indeed, be too much, Angelo. Now, listen. Youi 
know from others the story of my boyhood, up till the night I ram 
away. Ah, it was no dream that I hung over you, and wept over 
you such tears as leave their traces in a life ; but I had made up my 
mind from the moment father uttered those words, ‘ Ton have ever 
been a rebel, a misery! I would to God that Stewart had been my 
eldest born!’ I could love and cherish you under another identity, 
as I have done; and if I were dead, it left you the heir— and I disap- 
peared. I took some money, and made my way to Paris, meaning 
to pass through and leave my death to be inferred from my complete 
disappearance.” 

“But how you escaped the search made for you, Guido, is a 
marvel. ” 

Guido laughed slightly. 

“ I have often told you I was born a detective, and therefore the 
same instincts enabled me to guess at and baffle detection. You 
will wonder how I died of fever.” 

“Ido.” 

“Le voici, mon fr&re. In Paris I hid myself in an obscure, not 
to say low, lodging-house, in a low quarter ; and a day or two after 
a fever got into the house, and many of the locataires died. I shared 
a small room with a lad about my own age and size ; in fact, who 
answered equally well with myself to the advertisement description- 


MY MOTHER S PORTRAIT. 


155 


of me — you know how loose they are. I have it now by heart al- 
most: ‘A tall slight lad of fourteen, with delicate features, large, 
brilliant dark eyes, curling coal-black hair, very dark, foreign look- 
ing,” and m}^ dress followed. Now, though the Savoyard was not 
one bit like me, the description answered, as I perceived. Pauvre 
gar^on, he took the fever, and died one night in my arms. Then 
an idea struck me, for I was desperate and reckless. I dressed the 
poor boy in my clothes, put my pocket-book upon him, and money 
enough to bury him, took his clothes, and effected my escape; viola 
tout, the Savoyard went away, the English boy died of fever; it was 
very simple.” 

“ Guido, how you have suffered!” 

“ Suffered!” He stopped, almost choked by a world of emotion. 
“Well, well, it is past now. I fell on my feet, one way or the 
other, in the long-run.” 

“ Where did you get the name under which I first met you in 
Italy?” 

“ Count Guido di Schiara? Oh, I got that about six months after 
my flight. I had worked my way to Italy — to Rome— and had the 
luck to pull an old gentleman out of the Tiber. He took a fancy to 
me, because I was like his only son whom he had just lost. He 
was ‘ un baron du pain sec ’ — a count certainly, but poor, and had 
neither friends nor relations; poor old man, he only lived a few 
months, and dying, left me all he had, a few hundred scudi, his old 
name and his title, till any one claimed it. My life has been a 
strange one of struggles and changes, and wear and tear, imbittered 
at the very outset; but I was born a reckless, wild dare-devil, and 
such I have lived. It is a wonder that it has not been knocked out 
of me, a still greater wonder that all vestige of good was not worn 
out; but you, Stewart, saved me. Ah, many a time in that long 
twelve years I was near you, but I dared not trust myself to return. 
I had so nearly betrayed myself — not once, but many times — that I 
feared my own power of command. Then I met that child, Anna- 
Marie, and she spoke of, called you by the name I had given you.” 

“And you came back to me for rest,” said the sculptor, with his 
gentle smile; “yet, like me, you cannot long remain quiet. We are 
restless, wandering spirits, caro fratello mio. ” 

How softly and tenderly the words came from his lips ! how still 
and peaceful it was ! There was music in the very hum of the sum- 
mer insects. 


156 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUESE. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

AFTER TWENTY-THREE YEARS. 

“ Feelings of sadness round me now throng.” — Italia. 

The gorgeous autumn sun blazed down on sea and land, and 
threw the shadow of the lofty cliffs over the rocky beach and rip- 
pling waves. It fell on the grand old forest trees and wide lands 
and stately towers of Ernescliffe, with its princely site and sweep of 
marble terrace, whose whiteness gleamed dazzlingly in the sunlight, 
in strong contrast to the soft green foliage and gorgeous coloring of 
the flowers in the gardens about and below it. But the deer were 
not the only living creatures in the park, for under the trees came a 
tall dark figure, with a tread so light that it did not even frighten 
the timid animals; it came on swiftly to an open space where the 
view of the Hall opened full, and near an old blasted oak paused. 

There stood Guy Claverhouse, a wanderer, an exile, a stranger on 
the very lands of his forefathers ; there, on the very spot where, three- 
and-twenty years before, he had paused reckless, almost broken- 
hearted, and looked his last on the home where slept his idolized 
brother; where his worshipped mother had lived and died; those 
for whom at fourteen years he gave up everything, and became as 
one dead ; wild, restless, wayward was his nature, but noble, indeed, 
capable of such grand self-sacrifice. 

There once more he stood, a bearded man, so altered and changed 
by twenty-three years of hardship and struggle and suffering, that 
none would have recognized in this Italian stranger the boy-heir of 
Claverhouse they had known so well. 

There was the broad terrace where he had played with his infant 
brother or walked with his mother; there the nursery window, the 
very iron bars still there; and that, more than all else, broke the 
strong man down. How many, in after - years, have looked with 
blinding tears on that simple thing, the nursery window ! what a host 
of memories crowd round it! “shades that will not vanish.” No 
other eye, perhaps, could mark it out from those near it, but you 
would know it among twenty through fifty years of time and 
change ; and Guy Claverhouse bowed his stricken head on the riven 
oak, and his whole form shook with sobs of such passionate agony 
as even the man’s iron will was powerless to subdue for a long time. 
Memory for him was very bitter and sorrowful, but there was no 
regret for all he had resigned and laid down with infinite love at his 
brother’s feet. His birthright, unlike Esau’s, was a free gift. 

Every onward step brought back the past; but he had mastered 
himself now; and when he entered the gardens and ascended the 


AFTER TWENTY-THREE YEARS. 


157 


terrace he was calm, though every familiar stone, every well-remem- 
bered piece of furniture, tried him afresh. 

But light as his step fell on the marble, the ear of affection detect- 
ed it, and from an open window came the tall, graceful form of the 
sculptor. 

“Guido mio, I knew I could not mistake your step, though we 
did not expect you so soon.” 

Their hands met in silence for a minute; and then, perhaps to 
veil deeper feelings, the count asked, 

“ And where is Doctor John and the Lady of Ernescliffe?” 

“The old man is somewhere in his beloved hot-houses — I will 
send for him; and Nina — ” 

“Is here to welcome Guido,” said the sweet, gentle voice; and 
with out-stretched hands his brother’s young wife met him. 

He took those hands in both his own, and, holding them, stooped 
and kissed her broad clear brow, gravely, tenderly. 

“ Sweet sister,” said the musical tones that were so like her hus- 
band’s, “ thus I at once give and receive a welcome to Ernescliffe.” 

“It should have been otherwise,” said Stewart, almost under his 
breath; “it should have been far otherwise.” 

“Hush!” said the other, slightly raising his hand. “ Guy Claver- 
house died tliree-and- twenty years ago, in his boyhood.” 

Tliree-and-twenty years ago! How far away his boyhood seemed, 
dim and shadowy as in a mist, seen as in a glass, darkly. So have 
many looked back on their youth, but few, perhaps, with so strange 
a story as Guy Egmont Claverliouse, once a mother’s darling and 
heir of an ancient house; yet now, as he stood there, with those wide 
domains before him, now, when he had renounced forever lands, 
name, and nation, he had never felt so proud of his ancient name 
and blood, never been so proudly, exultingly conscious that he stood 
there an English gentleman. He might look like and pass for an 
Italian, but nothing could undo his English blood and nation. 

It was a curious smile, pleased, yet sad, that crept over his hand- 
some mouth as he heard the doctor’s voice ask some one “ where was 
Mrs. Claverhouse,” and Luigi Padella’s answer, “The signora is on 
the terrace, I believe; the Conte di Schiara has come.” 

And the next minute Doctor John came quickly up to give his warm 
welcome in words to Guido di Schiara, in truth to the dead Cora’s 
first-born son, whose childhood he had scarcely known. 

* * * * * * * 

It was a quiet, still evening— the dead, lurid stillness of the calm 
before the storm ; not a breath of air stirred the leaves or glassy sea, 
whose mighty waters rolled with a long, ceaseless swell on the rocks 
with a low, ominous moaning; and the moon shone down cold and 
calm from the blue, dim distance, cloudless save for a low black 
bank along the horizon, and a little cloud like unto a man’s hand 
high up in the heavens. 

The sculptor, standing on the terrace, pointed to it. 

“ See, Guido, the gale is coming; and, hark! there are the sea-gulls 
screaming, that strange, weird cry ; and how the sea moans and wails 


158 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


for those who will never come back to the shore, perhaps. I won- 
der,” he said, leaning on his brother’s shoulder, and turning his deep 
dreamy eyes eastward — “ I wonder how many will look their last 
on that grand old sea to-night ! 

“ ‘ The ocean old, centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled . 1 

Ah ! there the poet forgot that God holds the mighty waters in his 
right hand — ‘ even the winds and the sea obey him.’” 

His voice was very soft and low, and he stood looking out to sea 
with a strange, rapt expression, such an unearthly light and beauty 
in his face that a sudden pang went to Guido’s very heart. All that 
day there had been a heavy shadow, a presentiment upon him as if 
something dark was nigh at hand, a sadness and gloom he had veiled 
but could not shake off his mind. “It might be the subtle influence 
of the coming storm,” he muttered, and tried to put it from him, as 
if that were possible. 

He did not answer — he could not; and both stood silent a long 
time, dreaming dreams, perhaps, for which language has no words, 
till at last, without moving his hand from its resting-place, or his 
eyes from their long, steadfast gaze, that saw so far beyond the blue 
sea, Stewart said, very softly, in the liquid tongue of his brother’s 
adoption, 

* ‘ Guido, there seems to have come into my spirit to-night some- 
thing strange and peaceful that I never felt before. Look at that 
silver moonlight on the sea; does it not seem like a bright path into 
heaven, easy to tread by faith, as Peter did?” 

“Easy to you, Angelo.” He stopped, and lifted his hand to cover 
his lips, quivering with such emotion and sickening vague dread as 
he dared not even think of. 

“I wish,” said Stewart, suddenly, “that Anna-Marie would take 
my offer at once; it grieves me, it pains me to leave her as she is, ow- 
ing her what we do. It is wrong of her, but she again refused Nina’s 
entreaty, refused me. ‘Not yet,’ she said, in that sweet, pleading 
way of hers; ‘give me a little more time.’ It troubles me, Guido 
She is changed, too, of late ; a patiently sorrowful face hers always 
was, but noyr it wears a look of yet deeper endurance and pain. I 
must get the truth out of her, or perhaps Nina can ; but ”■ — and his 
brow grew dark — “if aqy man has insulted that child, or trifled with 
her, he shall answer to me for it.” 

“ If any man ever harms that child I will kill him,” said Guido, 
sternly and deliberately. 

The sculptor turned, and looked steadfastly in his brother’s face, 
and then slowly a smile came over his own. 

“ I thought it long ago,” he said. “We two can read each other, 
though others cannot; and I thought long ago that you, who never 
before in all your thirty-seven years bowed to woman, have given all 
the love. of your strong manhood to this lonely, unprotected child.” 

“Ay,” said Guido, almost passionately; “just because she is so 
alone and unprotected — because she is a child and not a woman— 


CAIN. 


159 


she has strangely wound herself into my heart. She has had her 
way too long; she has refused you and Nina; but me — she shall hear 
me ; seared as I am, she will let me in time win her love ; give me 
the right to protect and shelter her with my name and love, for none 
other will Guido di Schiara call wife.” 

“ Guido di Schiara!” repeated the sculptor; “ no, that cannot be. 
I cannot suffer such injustice. Is your wife to know you only by a 
false name? Are your children to be disinherited — and for me? 
never!” 

“Listen to me,” said the elder brother, calmly. “What I have 
said I have said, and mean, as you know of old. You wrong Anna- 
Marie. If she could not take me for myself as I should her, she 
should be no wife of mine. If she gives me the blessing of her love 
I will marry her far away privately, under my own name ; and pub- 
licly from here, if you will, under the name I have borne and will 
bear, and which my children must bear after me. If my marriage 
were to force upon me what I have renounced, I tell you I would 
never see her face again ; I should become in very truth dead to you 
all; and you know what that would cost me, Angelo mio.” 

“Guido, Guido, it is too much sacrifice,” said Stewart, hoarsely; 
“let me be alone a while.” He wrung his brother’s hand, and turn- 
ed away towards the sea. 

And the black bank of clouds grew darker in the heavens, and the 
sea-gulls screamed, and the sad sea moaned ‘ ‘ for those who should 
never come back to the -shore. ” 


MANUSCRIPT XXVII. 

CAIN. 

“ By thy brotherhood with Cain 
I call upon thee, and compel 
Thyself to be tliy proper hell.” — Manfred. 

It might have been years instead of weeks or months since her 
marriage, for all my sense of time and season. It had driven n}e to 
Ernescliffe, it drove me from it; but peace and calm had fled for- 
ever, and left me to the powers of hell — the hell of my own black 
passions and evil nature; every passion concentrated now in the 
one wild, insatiable, remorseless purpose of my life, from which 
nothing could turn me aside; yet I shrunk from every face as if 
mine had it written on it. The world should ring yet with the 
great sculptor’s name as it had never rung before. 

There it lay, next my heart, cold and hard, always there now, al- 
ways loaded; the bodily form of my dread secret, the one thought 
and purpose that possessed me. I knew nothing else, felt nothing 
else, lived for nothing else; and when he went to Ernescliffe I fol- 
lowed secretly, his evil genius. 


160 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


I told my mother that I was going to join Tom Dacre in a shoot- 
ing visit. One lie did as well as another, so that she believed it; 
but when I kissed her at parting, if she had only looked into my 
eyes with something of a woman's tender softness; if she had only 
drawn my guilty head upon the breast where it had nestled in my 
innocent childhood, and asked me to lay bare my heart to the moth- 
er who bore me, she might have saved me! she might have saved 
me even then! 

I left her and went to D . It was a town large enough to 

hide in; and then, night by night, and hour by hour, I watched, 
watched, watched, till I grew sick with the thirst for revenge, and 
desperate to execute it. How those days and nights passed I know 
not. I noted nothing; I was conscious only of that one absorbing 
fell purpose; the thing that had slumbered fitfully for nearly thir- 
teen years, and now stood before me, encompassed me in the strong 
life of its gigantic horror. One night only is burned into my mem- 
ory in letters of fire, and that — O God! O God! if there is one! — 
what an awful night it was! 

So still at first, not a leaf stirred a hair’s-breadth ; the long black 
shadows of the giant forest-trees in Ernescliffe Park never moved 
or flickered in the moonlight. The thick old oak where I lay con- 
cealed threw a black motionless shadow. The ancient Hall, with its 
stately marble terrace, lay before me, so near that I could hear a 
voice through the open windows — his voice, no other was ever like 
it — singing. Of all things, what had made him choose that ? 

“ Ah, che la morte.” I listened almost with suspended breath to 
the voice whose strange, wondrous charm had never fascinated me 
more than now; and when it ceased, it seemed as if the last remnant 
of good died out from me on the last strain of its mournful cadence, 
and left me body and soul to evil. 

Then I saw him come out on the terrace— the maestro, the great 
sculptor himself, more beautiful than any masterpiece that even his 
hand ever wrought, and with him was the man he loved, the man I 
hated and feared — Guy de Cavagnac. I could hear their voices, 
soft, low, distinctly, borne on the still, deathly air, not their words, 
though I could distinguish that at first they spoke English, and 
then Italian, and though so like, I knew his voice from the count’s. 
I watched him, I strained my gaze to distinguish his features, and 
my ears to hear his words, but only one reached them — the name 
of Guido di Schiara in answer to the count. This, then, was Cav- 
agnac’s real name. I knew his secret ; it might serve my turn some 
day, I muttered fiercely; and then I saw Stewart Claverhouse wring 
his hand, and leave the terrace. I watched his dark, slight form, 
moving silently — for his foot fall had no sound — towards the cliff 
and disappear over the edge, down some narrow path, perhaps. 
My hand stole to my breast, and for a moment clutched what lay 
there; then gliding, creeping, like the serpent I was, I followed, un- 
der shelter of the trees and thick underwood which stretched to the 
very edge of the cliffs. There was a steep, craggy foot-path a little 
way off, and by it I reached the beach and paused, crouching be- 


CAIN. 


161 


hind a large piece of rock, of which there were three or four along 
the beach, within range of my eyes. 

Had the time come at last, the moment for which I had watched 
for months? I drew in my breath and set my teeth hard, as if that 
could still the wild beating of my heart and throbbing of my brain. 
Did I shrink now at the last from staining the night with so awful a 
deed; now, when he stood there a hundred yards from me? Did I 
shiver when I saw his pale face so beautiful, so unearthly, so doomed? 
Oh, how beautiful he was as he stood there alone looking out to sea, 
looking beyond it, seeing what I could never see or know. Did only 
an hour pass, or a lifetime? did I watch the storm coming up and 
listen to the sea-gulls screaming as they circled just above the rising 
waves? did I hear the wind begin to rise and moan along the rocks 
and sigh in the trees above? did I hear the sea wail and sob pite- 
ously, softly at first, like a wailing child, so awfully human in its 
ceaseless moaning, that I listened appalled? did I see the lurid mass 
of clouds along the horizon lift and sweep upward over the heavens 
till the cold, stern moon silvered their edges and threw all else into 
deeper shadow? did I hear the thunder crash far away, and know 
that the storm was coming up swiftly now? did the wind shriek it 
in my ear, vainly trying to scare me? How could it? I, who had 
grown familiar with it, and hugged the hideous thing close, and 
knew it by its own fell name — murder! 

How luridly black it grew, for all the moonlight. How motion- 
less and statue-like he stood. Would he never move? would he 
never move? A fearful fancy seized me, and shook me with terror 
—had he died there as he stood f I could not bear it; I must see him 
move, hear him speak once more ; I must for the first and last time 
break loose from the spell of his fascination, and pour out in one tor- 
rent the hatred and jealousy of years. The impulse gathered up its 
force too strong for me, and crushed the barrier. 

With my right hand hidden in my breast, I left my concealment 
and approached him. 

He heard the step, and turned directly, his noble form and beauti- 
ful face and head thrown out in strong relief against a huge mass of 
rock some sixty yards behind him. 

I stood face to face with my rival, Nina’s husband, and in that 
thought fled the last hesitation; every pulse, every consciousness, 
every feeling of my being centred into one point ; yet I had never 
so shrunk before those deep, mystic eyes or the grand beauty of that 
doomed face ; never before so shivered at the voice I had once loved 
to hear, shivered with the fear of its charm. I heard it now, with 
its soft, half-foreign accent. 

“ Casper Yon Wolfgang, you here! how strange and ill you look. 
Come away with me, for the gale will break in ten minutes; it will 
be an awful night. Come away from here.” 

He half raised his hand, that chiselled, beautiful hand ; but I re- 
coiled from his touch, and gave full swing to the demon in me. 

“ If your hand could save me from all the tortures of your fabled 
hell, from all the thunders of your fabled God, I would not touch it; 

11 


162 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


you, who since our youth I have sought, yet hated ! you, who have 
repulsed me and evaded me ! you, who have been my rival all my 
life in everything! you, who have torn from me the woman I loved, 
and wedded her before my very face! Did you dream I could for- 
give or forget all I owed you? Ha! ha! you told me I had no soul, 
and you were right. You believe that you have one; you believe in 
a God! Go, then, tell him this night how Casper Yon Wolfgang 
dares and defies him!” 

* * * * * * * 

Did I see the moonlight flash on the glittering weapon? Did I 
hear the report echo over rock and sea, and see him fall at my feet 
without a word — dead? Did I hear such an awful cry as I can never 
get out of my ears, and knew it, through all its horror, for Anna- 
Marie’s? Did I feel her wolf-hound spring upon me, and beat it 
back with the weapon, till a blow on the head stunned it for a mo- 
ment? Did I fling the revolver at her, in the mad hope of killing 
her, too, and fly up the rocky pathway and away, away, anywhere, 
to shut out that dead face, and that child’s awful cry? fly from the 
sea, from the storm, that broke over land and ocean ; from light and 
darkness, from myself, and oh, God! how could I? 

Doomed, accursed forever! How can I bear it, and live? An out- 
cast, a murderer upon the face of the earth. 

* * * * * * * 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AZRAEL. 

“ What a fearful crash of thunder, Uncle Jack) I wish Stewart 
and Guido were in,” said Mrs. Claverhouse, shutting the piano, and 
coming restlessly to the window. “Where can they be? it is more 
than an hour since they went out. See, even Fidelio is uneasy and 
anxious ” — for the Newfoundland had followed her with an uneasy 
moan, and stood half out on the terrace, sniffing the air. 

‘ ‘ My child, they are safe enough ; you young wives — ” 

“Don’t — don’t laugh at me,” she said, earnestly. “I have felt so 
strange and uneasy all day ; there is a vague fear on me. ” 

“My darling, you are too sensitive and imaginative; isn’t she, Fi- 
delio? See, Nina, how intently he is listening for his master. Ah, 
what is that for?” 

The dog suddenly threw up his magnificent head, with a wild, 
deep, mournful cry, that was neither a howl nor a bay, but was in- 
expressibly strange and terrible, and springing past his mistress, 
bounded forward. 

She stood with a perfectly white face, listening, straining every 
sense of sight and hearing. 

“ Hark!” she said, suddenly. “ What is that? Great God! what 
is that?” 


AZRAEL. 


163 


The tread of a dozen feet, crushing over grass ahd flower and un- 
derwood, and the voice of Guido di Schiara, strange and hoarse : 

“ Keep him down or all is over! keep the poor dog down, Anna. 
Go forward, and warn her calmly, if you can.” 

The wife heard no more, but glided, white and shivering, to meet 
the advancing men, but no word, no sound, escaped her as she saw 
that Guido, Luigi, and two others bore a hurdle, on which lay some- 
thing covered with a mantle. She only looked in their faces, and 
fell back to Anna de Laval, who followed with the two dogs, and in 
her left hand the revolver. Only the tearless eyes asked the question 
the lips could not utter, and Anna answered it. 

“ He still breathes. Monsieur Auguste has ridden for a physician 
and the priest.” 

They brought him into the room he had left not two hours before, 
and laid the motionless form on a sofa, and the servants withdrew, 
all but Luigi Padella. Doctor John asked the question the wife 
could not. 

“ For God’s sake, how did it happen, Guido? What is it?” 

Nina, still silent and tearless, awfully calm, had knelt down by 
her husband, removing the mantle, while Guido undid and threw 
open coat and shirt; but he raised his dark stern face for a second to 
answer one word : 

“Murder!” 

The word penetrated the young wife’s ear, and a whisper came 
from her lips : 

“Who? who is — ” 

‘ ‘ Hush ! Casper Yon W olfgang. ” 

“ Oh, my God! oh, my God! it is more than I can bear!” 

That voice, so deeply loved, reached the dying ear; the lips quiv- 
ered, and the large melancholy eyes opened once more on the loved 
face. 

‘ ‘ Nina, my heart, I am dying. Give me your hand ; lift my head. ” 

She clasped the slender hand that had wrought such wondrous 
works of art, and laid the beautiful head on her breast. 

“ Will the physician never come?” she said. “ Guido, will he nev- 
er come?” 

The sculptor’s low, faint voice spoke : 

“ It is too late; the wound bleeds internally. Guido, give me any- 
thing for momentary strength.” 

“This, signor,” said Luigi, offering a glass containing wine. 

Silently the elder brother took it and gave it to Stewart. 

For a moment he lay motionless, and then the wine revived him 
to a transient strength. He half raised himself on the cushion so 
that he could see his wife’s face, and his glance went from one to the 
other. 

It was a strange, sad scene on which it rested. The young wife 
he must leave, kneeling beside him, his uncle, his faithful friend rath- 
er than servant, Luigi, and closer, the brother, the man he had loved 
all his life, and at his side the friendless wanderer, the horror of that 
scene written in her dark eyes, never to be effaced while life remained* 


164 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


He saw it, and the weapon still mechanically grasped by her little 
hand, saw her wolf-hound, and saw his own faithful dog creep 
from its side and lay its noble head on his feet, moaning softly, pit- 
eously. 

It touched them all to the quick, touched him so deeply that for 
a minute he could only lay his hand in silence on the loving head 
he could not see for the blinding tears; but he dashed them aside, 
and still holding his wife’s hand, stretched the other hand, first to 
his uncle, whose grief was terrible to see, then to Luigi, and wrung 
theirs hard. 

“ God help you all,” he said, “ for I know how you all loved me.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, Stewart ! my life, my husband, how can I bear it? Oh, God ! 
how can I bear it? he must live.” 

“Hush, Nina, my darling, my own wife: there is no hope, save 
in Heaven. I am dying fast. ” He paused a minute to recover him- 
self, and then spoke again, but the soft musical voice was weaker 
even now. 

“ Guy, my brother, after my wife, the one I loved best on earth, 
my friend through life, give me your hand, yours too, Anna mia. 
What a little slender hand ! See, Guido, yours can cover it as it lies 
in it. Take it, protect her, for I leave her to you, but tell her what 
you told me to-night, that I may hear her own lips answer — ” 

“Angelo, not now, not now,” Guido said, hoarsely. 

“Hush! forgive me; it is too much, yet I must know. Anna, my 
child, surely, womanlike, you must know how he loves you. You 
did not — it is in your face — Ah, well, you are so young — ” 

“Oh, signor mio, spare me.” The child’s head was bowed on the 
hands that held hers and Guido’s in one clasp, and her slight form 
shook like a reed ; but Guy Claverhouse, mastering himself by one 
terrible effort for his brother’s sake, self-sacrificing to the last, wrap- 
ped that slight form within his strong arm, and stooping, pressed 
his quivering lips to her brow, sealing her with a holy kiss his love, 
his wife; and a peaceful smile lighted up the sculptor’s beautiful 
face. 

“It is enough,” he said, faintly. “Guido — Nina— we shall meet 
soon; God’s will be done.” The dark eyes turned to the loved face 
of his young wife; then he laid his head on her breast, and, with 
that smile on his face, died. 

******* 


CHAPTER XX. 

AN OATH. 

Physicians might come and go — he knew it not; the storm might 
burst, and the war of the elements shake the very chamber, but it 
could not disturb the dead ; the winds might lull with the dawn, and 
the wild sea abate its fury; but the great sculptor had looked his 


AN OATH. 


165 


last on the grand ocean ; the soul had returned to the God who gave 
it, and all that remained on earth was a murdered corpse. 

The morning sun shone into that chamber of death, and on those 
three who had never left the dead. How calm and beautiful he lay, 
the shadow of that smile still on the statuesque face, the chiselled 
features locked forever in the eternal peace of death, that awful 
word, so lightly spoken, so often made a jest; a fearful mystery, 
even when it comes by God’s visitation — when those who mourn 
can look upward and say, “ The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken 
away; blessed be the name of the Lord;” but awful indeed when 
it comes as death first came into this world of sin, by man’s slaying 
hand. 

Cut off in his glorious manhood, laid low in his noblest years! 
Still the wife knelt there, motionless, tearless ; still the dog lay moan- 
ing and licking the hand that could never more caress it ; still the 
brother stood, stern, silent, tearless as the wife ; still the poor wan- 
derer, whom the dead had saved from despair long ago, crouched at 
his feet. 

So the light broke and the sun rose, till at last a ray fell on the 
stricken head lying on the dead man’s breast ; and then suddenly the 
wanderer rose, laid her hand on that of the living man, and pointed 
to that bowed head. 

It was white as driven snow ! 

He stooped to carry her awtfy, but she put him gently back, and 
lifted her face, the face of a broken heart. 

“Hush! it will not be for long, and I cannot leave him. Bear 
with me; it is only a little while; he said it.” 

He looked at her, and lifted his locked hands above his head with * 
such a mute, passionate agony as was terrible to witness, for, like 
theirs, it was beyond all usual sign. 

“ It is better so, ’’said Anna de Laval, with a calm, stern sadness. 

“ She is right. I know her heart by mine — it is broken, as mine 
would break if you lay there.” 

The calmness and steadiness of her low, plaintive tones might have 
deceived most men, but not him. He read in it, in her dry eyes and 
still face, how she suffered ; but he saw there, also, perhaps by the 
instinct of his own kindred feeling, the same deep, implacable re- 
solve of vengeance as lay in his own heart. She looked up; their 
eyes met, and each read the other’s soul. 

“We understand each other,” she said; and it hardly seemed the 
same Anna of a week ago. 

“A wanderer he found me, and a wanderer will Anna-Marie re- 
main till the murderer is brought to justice. Till then we who 
loved him live for nothing else but that one object. ” 

“In the name of God’s justice so be it,” said Guy Claverhouse, 
solemnly. “ Here, in the presence of the dead, and of God, I sw’ear 
that our feet shall know no resting-place, our heads no home or 
shelter, until the murderer is brought to justice.” 

“ Amen.” 

It was the wife’s voice, and thus the solemn vow was sealed. 


166 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


MANUSCRIPT XXVIII. 

ISHMAEL. 

“ For a magic voice and verse 
Hath baptized thee with a curse.’’ — Manfred. 

The train might whirl me away to vast London, and gain me four- 
and-twenty hours’ start of those who would soon be like sleuth- 
hounds on my trail. I might fly and escape my pursuers, but could 
I fly from myself? 

Was the demon satiated now with blood, human blood, that was 
on everything I saw and touched? A murderer on the face of the 
earth! Was it written on my forehead, and whispered in every 
breath of air? Did remorse seize my red right hand, and hurl me 
down to the unutterable hell of my own haunted soul? Did I see 
the knowledge of it in every passing face of man and beast, and 
shrink in terror from every passing glance? Did I tremble if even 
a dog looked at me, and curse it fiercely when it cowered or growled, 
as hers had done long ago, as if it scented blood in my very breath 
even then? Did I stop my ears and shut my eyes, to shut out that 
Italian child’s awful cry, and that still, dead face turned upward to 
the moonlight, in the locked, grand beauty of death? And how 
could I, how could I, when it never left me for a moment? Night 
and day, in darkness and light, in sleeping or waking, I saw it, as I 
had seen it in the moonlight at my feet, a murdered face. 

Can I look back and remember all? Can I forget one hour, one 
moment? forget I fled from that spot a murderer? fled in wild hor- 
ror from the shrieking wind and moaning, passionate sea; fled on, 
cursing the hour I was born, the mother who bore me, the very 
blood I had shed ; stunned, almost mad, at first, till the strong in- 
stinct of life, the impulse of self-preservation, seized me? But oh, 
what it cost me to walk composedly into the station ; to remember 
that if I took no ticket to London they could not trace me there so 
readily; to face men with my guilty face, and try to look as if mur- 
der were not branded on my brow ; to stand shivering with horrible 
dread that every step, every voice, was come to proclaim me for 
what I was; to be calm and collected, and restrain the horrible im- 
pulse that impelled me to look behind me continually, and out of 
window at every station, under the hideous fear that the murdered 
man would be there before me, and follow me again; to try and 
speak to myself in the tunnels, that I might grow used to my own 
voice before I reached London, and find at last that it was so changed 
and hollow that I started and shrunk, shuddering, from its music- 
less sound. 


ISHHAEL. 


167 

Oh, for one moment of oblivion! Oh, to go back those few hours, 
and live them over again! 

But I had grown more used to the strange sound by the time I 
reached what had once been my home. I must go there ; I must 
have money. It was still so early that only the liouse-maid was up, 
and she stared as she admitted me. I pushed past her angrily, went 
to my study, and took all the money I could find in mad haste; but 
my mother had heard me, and as I turned to go, to fly once more, 
she stood before me. 

“ Casper! is this my son? What has happened?” 

“ Stand aside, and let me pass,” I answered, fiercely. “You will 
know soon enough, for all England will ring with my name before 
this night, and then curse the hour you gave me birth, and yourself, 
who made me what I am. Stand back!” 

She staggered, with her blanched face convulsed, and stretched 
out her hands ; but I recoiled from her grasp with a cry, and es- 
caped from the house, from London, from England, accursed,, an 
outcast, forever! 

******* 

Let me try and write more calmly, if I can. 

I escaped into Holland, disguised and hidden, safe for at least a 
few days. I tried to form some plan for my safety, but I could not 
think or keep two consecutive ideas, racked, maddened as I was by 
fear and anxiety. What were they doing to find the assassin? And 
Nina— oh Nina! what had become of her? Was I doubly a mur- 
derer? I could not bear it. I got the English papers at all risks, 
and from them learned all. 

Long ago — how many years it seemed now — I had jestingly told 
him that my name would yet be famous, little dreaming how fear- 
fully I should fulfil my own words. 

All England, all Europe, rang with the deed— and heaped execra- 
tion on the once honored and stainless name of St. Leger W olfgang. 
Men looked at each other in startled grief and horror, as if it were 
a national calamity; so young, so beautiful, so gifted, the sudden 
loss of the great sculptor, and that in so awful a manner, was felt 
as a national loss. I flung down the papers; I could not bear to 
see his name, to see before me the blackness of my deed ; then, as by 
a fascination, I seized them again, and devoured with my eyes every 
word there was of him 

“whose name 

Was written on the scroll of fame.” 

I read on and started. One paragraph explained the strange like- 
ness of voice and hand between him and my enemy: “The large 
estates of Ernescliffe go now to the unfortunate sculptor’s only and 
elder brother, Guy Egmont Claverhouse, who has for some time been 
well known in fashionable and elite circles as the Comte de Cavagnac.” 

This, then, was the one they had believed to have died in his boy- 
hood — my enemy, my deadly enemy now. I should know where 
every blow and search came from. 


168 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


But Nina, Nina; was there nothing of her? No, nothing; they 
had noted everything else first, it seemed to my distracted brain. 

There had been an inquest the very next day, and an instant ver- 
dict — yes, let me write it — of Wilful Murder returned against Cas- 
per Yon Wolfgang, on the evidence of Anna-Marie de Laval, a Ro- 
man cameo - seller. And then I learned that that child had from 
Stewart’s marriage-day watched me like my shadow, and scarcely 
lost sight of me. She had followed me to Ernescliffe, and kept 
her vigilant watch there, curse her! night and day, she told the cor- 
oner, resting when she could. How little I had dreamed that she had 
been so near that night, the 20th of August; she could have touch- 
ed me, almost, as I stole into the park. She told them that I had 
lain down under a tree near the cliff, and lighted a cigar; and that 
knowing the Signor Maestro was at the Hall with the Signor Guido, 
she had turned aside, and descended to the beach, where she sat 
down behind a block of rock with her dog. She had not, she said, 
slept, except by snatches, for a week, and not at all the last forty- 
eight hours, so that she was worn out, and, doubtless, lulled by the 
soft moaning of the sea, had fallen asleep. My name uttered by 
the maestro woke her directly, and she advanced so as to both see 
and hear. She repeated every word that had passed only too faith- 
fully, and described my very expression of face. 

“ It was,” she said, “ that of a murderer,” and she had stood ready 
to let her dog loose upon me, but the whole had passed rapidly. 
I had been so instantaneous in drawing the revolver and firing, that, 
swift as she was, she was a second too late. Swift! I could say how 
swift she and the hound had been, for almost before he fell they 
were upon me. 

Shivering, trembling in every nerve and fibre, I still went on read- 
ing. Cavagnac’s evidence followed hers, but it was short. He had, 
he said, got anxious at his brother’s long absence, and gone towards 
the cliff to search for him. On the way he met Luigi Padella in 
conversation with his own attendant, Auguste Morel, who was 

mounted, having been into D for his master. As he came up, 

they all heard, simultaneously, the shot and Anna’s cry, and he and 
Luigi sprung down the cliff, and there he found his brother sense- 
less, though still breathing. He sent Luigi for assistance, and de- 
spatched Auguste for a surgeon, who had, however, arrived too 
late ; his brother only lived about fifteen minutes after they carried 
him in. I passed on : I saw that a warrant was issued for my ap- 
prehension, and that a price was on my head ; I knew that that came 
from Guy Claverhouse. I saw the advertisement: “£400 for any 
information leading to the capture of Casper St. Leger Wolfgang, 
and £1,000 for his capture.” 

And I wrung my blood-stained hands above my head : henceforth 
my hand was against every man, and every man’s hand was against 
me. 


REST TO THE WEARY. 


169 


CHAPTER XXI. 

REST TO THE WEARY. 

Where was Nina, the widowed wife? If Casper could have seen 
her, would he have recognized the Nina he had known in this bro- 
ken-hearted mourner, still a girl, and gray-liaired, so silent, so calm and 
tearless? She had shed no tears from first to last, but moved about, 
the ghost of her former self, only she seemed to cling more closely 
and tenderly than ever to Guido and Anna, to all he had loved. 

One night— the night before the burial— only one short week since 
that night, though it seemed as weary years — she stole from among 
them, and the dog Fidelio followed her, as he had ever done since his 
master’s death. 

The three that remained looked at each other, but only Doctor John, 
at whose feet Anna sat, looking up into the noble, sorrow-stricken 
face, spoke in a whisper: 

“ She has gone to him. Oh, if she would only weep!” 

“Our tears are dried at their source,” said Guido, in his stern sor- 
row ; ‘ * and left to us who live only darkness, and — vengeance. Hark, 
what is that?” 

The dog, who pushed open the door, and came whining up to him, 
then turned again to the door, looking back, still moaning. 

They followed the faithful animal to the chamber of death — those 
three, and paused within the threshold. 

There she knelt by the dead, the gray hair sweeping over his breast, 
the young beautiful face laid on the silent heart that had loved her 
so well ; the slender hands clung about his, as if they had sought to 
warm them back into life; and there was a soft smile on the quiet 
dead face. The poor broken heart was at rest forever. But the dog 
crept up, laid himself on his master’s silent form, and 

“ With a piteous and perpetual moan, 

And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answered not with a caress, he died.” 

******* 

They laid them to rest in one grave; death could not part those 
whom God had joined together. 

And then at last, when all had gone and left the brother, as he 
deemed, alone, the unnatural calm gave way, the strong man broke 
down, and bowing his face on the cold earth, wept such tears as are 
wept only once or twice in a lifetime. But a woman’s tender hand 
lifted the head, and laid it on a woman’s breast, and tears fell fast 
on it. 


170 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Oh, Anna, my child! my heart is broken: he was my very life!” 
She only drew him gently away, crushing her own grief, woman- 
like, to be the comforter in his hour of agony. 

“ O woman! 

When pain and anguish wring the brow, 

A ministering angel thou.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THOSE THAT WERE LEFT. 

Only eight days since that night, yet it seemed so many heavy 
years. Impossible to remain at Ernescliffe, to miss every moment 
the two who were not. The doctor was a broken old man, too old 
to form anew the ties whose cords had been so awfully snapped asun- 
der. Guido — always Guido now, the name the sculptor had loved — 
he clung to for the sake of the dead. But he had never known 
Cora’s eldest son in his boyhood, and in his manhood only as an Ital- 
ian stranger. His object in life was gone, and its light vanished. 

“My sun has set in heaviness,” he said, with a saddened and beau- 
tiful resignation, “and my gray hairs are brought down with sorrow 
to the grave. God’s will be done.” 

But the heart of the younger man only rose up in passionate stern 
appeal for justice on the murderer. He had sworn and would fulfil. 

The day after that mournful funeral the Proven^ale came quietly 
into the presence of the two men, and both started, the elder not 
knowing, the younger forgetting, that they must part. She was once 
more in her Roman dress. 

“Anna!” said Guido Claverhouse, rising hurriedly. 

“Tiens; monsieur forgets that I must go.” It was the old quiet 
manner and low plaintive voice — the manner more subdued and pa- 
tient, the voice more weary and sorrowful, but still the same. 

“ Go ? Ah, pardon ; yes. ” He turned aside, but the one great blow 
had almost numbed the heart to any lesser suffering. There was a 
sense of dead blank loss, a dull, aching, ceaseless anguish, an utter 
weariness and restlessness that made even this bearable, which before 
had been torture. 

But Doctor John looked from one to the other in pain and surprise. 

“You cannot mean it, Guido, to let this child, your wife, go forth a 
wanderer?” 

“ She cannot stop here; the world would talk.” 

“Wed her, then, at once. It is what he would have wished. Gui- 
do, if you do not! — Do you love the child?” 

“ Do I not?” he said, passionately. “ See how I love her!” He 
drew her to his breast, and kissed her eyes and lips. “ And yet she 
must go. We have sworn that we will know no rest or home until 


THOSE THAT WERE LEFT. 


m 


justice is done. We must go separate ways, each a wanderer, seek- 
ing till we find.” 

“But, Guido, Guido!” said the old man, deeply distressed, “trust 
it to those whose calling it is.” 

“ I do ; it is my calling. I have been a detective for years, and, 
perhaps, a better one than these. They have failed ; they are, at least, 
at fault. See, I heard this morning the detectives have tracked him 
to London, to his own house, and from that to Holland, then to Ba- 
den, and there they have lost him utterly, almost hopelessly, though 
they are still searching. Well, he may baffle them; but, by Heaven! 
he will not escape me or this child. Listen, Anna mia. Take this 
purse, go to London, and to-morrow evening come to the house in 

Square ; I shall be there. And God keep thee, my own Anna, my 

darling.” 

She drew herself gently from his hold, and kissing his hand with 
a strange mixture of love and reverence, turned and knelt at the doc- 
tor’s feet; and it seemed at once graceful and natural for the young 
slender girl to kneel before that venerable and stricken old man, and 
ask him humbly, 

“Are we wrong?” 

“ No, my child. Go; and under God’s laws obey in all things the 
man whose wife you are before Heaven. Your hearts have judged 
right : there can be no marriage while an unavenged murder lies at 
the door. But that strange decision — Guido, it should not be ; speak 
to her, use your authority, and forbid it.” 

Guido folded his arms tightly across his breast. It was one more 
torture, one more stab. 

“I have no authority over her actions,” he said, turning aside. 
“ Ask her whether I have pleaded or not, and how she answered me.” 

She gave him a pained, troubled look, and clasped the old man’s 
hand, speaking earnestly and firmly: 

“Monsieur, hear me. Kneeling beside him, I swore before God 
that ‘ a wanderer he had found me, and a wanderer I would remain 
until justice was fulfilled.’ Dare any man forbid me to keep that 
oath? Guido knows that my heart is at his feet, but he knows that 
it would kill me to remain inactive here. Exonerate him of fault, 
if fault there is; he has pleaded, and would use authority if he had 
it. He only endures what he has no power to stop. ” 

“ Endures — yes. I see all now; but, my child, you are trying him 
very much. Is it right?” 

“ Ah, monsieur, he has forgiven me; it is for II Angelo’s sake,” she 
said. 

If the man she loved had failed to move her, how could he hope 
to do so? He only kissed the young face tenderly and gravely, and 
Anna de Laval went forth from the desolate house of mourning once 
more a wanderer, her dog her only companion. 

It was not till after dark that the cameo-seller went to the old fa- 
miliar house, now T so changed. The hatchment told a sad story in it- 
self. 


172 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Luigi Padella admitted her. “ The Signor Conte,” he said, “ was 
waiting for her in the library,” and ushered her in. Guido received 
her gravely, and went at once to the hard facts with which they had 
now to deal. 

“I have,” he said, “ arranged all my affairs, and of course left 
Doctor John at the head of everything. He will live here, our head- 
quarters, so that, when ignorant of each other’s movements directly, 
we can always write to him, and through him, and for money also : 
remember, you are to send for that as if you were already my wedded 
wife; promise me.” 

“I promise you, monsieur.” 

He went on : 

“ The detectives have lost all trail at Baden, but their proceedings 
are not under my commands, and are independent of all but their 
own chief; therefore, I set myself and my private agents to work; 
wherever we find the murderer we can arrest him, as you know, un- 
der extradition.” 

“Oui, monsieur; continuez.” 

‘ ‘ There are four of us, besides one who is to remain and watch his 
mother, if perchance a clew may be so obtained.” 

“Four, monsieur?” 

“Yes; myself, you, Luigi, and Auguste. To-morrow I go to Ba- 
den, you to Paris, and Luigi and Auguste will await my orders in or 
near Baden. Probably one will go to America, and the other to 
Italy.” 

“Does monsieur think that Monsieur Casper will have fled to 
Paris?” 

“I cannot tell; he may. We must watch everywhere; and I will 
give you a letter to the chef I was last with, and he will give you ev- 
ery assistance. Beyond that, mark me, you are a free agent ; do as 
you judge best, go where you think best, unless you hear from me; 
only keep me as much as possible au courant of your movements 
and disguises, and write always in Italian. You have the photo- 
graph of him?” 

“Yes, signor mio.” 

He took her two little hands and held them, looking into her 
large, melancholy eyes with such deep sadness in his own, and yet 
such love, that hers filled. 

“ My darling, forgive me; yet one thing let me ask before we part 
— to meet, God knows when, perhaps never. Anna, call me by my 
name; tell me that you love me, for, indeed, my life has made it 
hard to believe that anything so young and pure as you can love me” 

“ Yois tu done que je t’aime, Guido, mon cceur,”she said, softly; 
and as he bent before her she kissed his brow and lips— the holy kiss 
of a wife. 

And then they parted. 


HOW M. T. A MONTHS RECEIVED THE CAMEO-SELLER. 173 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW M. LAMONTE RECEIVED THE CAMEO-SELLER. 

TnE sun had set, and night had fallen on the gay city of Paris, 
when a slight, girlish figure stopped before a certain bureau de po- 
lice, on the steps of which lounged a serge nt-de-ville, evidently off 
duty, enjoying a cigar. The tall, striking face and form, and pict- 
uresque foreign dress of the stranger, and the dog at her side, caught 
his eye, and he turned as she paused. 

“ Ha! who is it? what do you want?” he said. 

“Monsieur le Prefet Lamonte.” 

The answer was laconic and comprehensive. The man took his 
cigar from his lips, and looked at the child. 

“Hein! enfant, you are curt.” 

“Pardon, I am fatigued, and I must see Monsieur le Prefet this 
evening.” 

The musical voice, the plaintive, weary accent, and young, sorrow- 
ful face, touched the man, for the French are a kind-hearted people. 

“ Ah, well, little one,” said he, kindly; “ for the sake of your sweet 
eyes you shall see him. Follow me. ” 

The Provengale followed him silently up- stairs to a large, hand- 
some room, where, busily writing at a table, sat a fine-looking man 
of middle age. 

Her conductor knocked, and entering, said, respectfully, “ Mon- 
sieur, here is a young girl asking to see you.” 

“I am busy; send her away — a mendicant, probably,” said the 
official, not moving. 

“No, monsieur; a cameo-seller; but she seems very anxious to 
see you. She looks very different to her class,” he added. 

The official ears were pricked up directly. 

‘ ‘ Peste ! well, let her enter. ” 

The man obeyed, and the cameo-seller entered with a graceful sa- 
lute, which no royal dame of the old regime could have rivalled. M. 
Lamonte looked on the beautiful melancholy face, and all his vexa- 
tion vanished. 

“Well, my child, and what is it you want?” 

“ Will monsieur read this?” and as she presented the count’s let- 
ter her dark eyes scanned every line of the reader’s face. 

M. Lamonte read it, then put it down, took off his spectacles, and 
leaned back in his chair. 

“ This letter accredits you, the bearer, as the agent of Monsieur le 
Comte di Schiara. What is your name?” 

“Anna-Marie de Laval, monsieur.” 


174 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ And your age?” 

“Fifteen years.” 

“I gave you a year over that. Your domicile?” 

“ Monsieur, I am a wanderer.” 

“Poor child,” said the Prefet, thinking of his own young daugh- 
ter. “But where were you born?” 

“In Provence, monsieur.” 

“ Have you known Monsieur di Schiara for long?” 

“No; not for long; about six months.” 

“You know his history, what he was?” 

“ Oui, Monsieur le Prefet.” 

“ Bien; I am an old friend of his; sit down, mon enfant, and tell 
me what you want.” 

“Thank you, monsieur; it is about the capture of the murderer, 
St. Leger Wolfgang.” 

“Ah, I remember your name now; you saw it done?” 

The child shivered, but went on firmly: 

“ There is, as monsieur of course knows, a heavy price on his head, 
and advertisements for his capture out in every country and city. 
The English detective tracked him to Baden, and there lost him; 
but Monsieur di Schiara himself went there, and with much trouble 
traced him to Vienna.” 

“And there lost him?” 

“Entirely, monsieur; up till now, most completely. Monsieur 
Wolfgang is no fool.” 

“ Eh, no; he must, indeed, be clever to escape Guido di Schiara,” 
said the Prefet, with a slight laugh. “We used to say he had a 
magic hand. I have known him a whole year in finding his man ; 
and he will now, mark me. ” 

“ I know it , monsieur; or I shall.” 

“I believe that; continuez.” 

She obeyed. 

“Monsieur Guido thinks that Wolfgang is at present in conceal- 
ment, but may come disguised to Paris ; and if so, he will probably 
frequent the maisons-de-jeu, the theatres, cafes, et cetera, all places 
of excitement; here is his photograph.” She took several from her 
cameo-box. “Monsieur di Schiara wishes him watched for, he be- 
ing personally responsible for any expense; vous comprenez bien, 
monsieur?” 

“ Yes, yes; but you, too, are searching for this assassin?” 

“ I am; but there are many places where I cannot go with safety, 
even with my dog. Monsieur Guido made me promise.” . 

“Ah, that is just like him — a noble-hearted man, with all his 
faults ; he would never put any young girl in danger, even to capt- 
ure his brother’s murderer. Is there anything else I can do for you 
or him?” 

“Monsieur is too kind. Only send any information you may ob- 
tain direct to London--to Scotland Yard, and to ‘ Dr. Fantony, No. 

15 Square.’ And tell me, where is Louis Bonheur?” 

“Here in Paris, under surveillance; if you want to see him, you 


175 


“AN ARMY OF PHANTOMS VAST AND WAN.” 

will find him at the Cafe Duseque. Use my name if you find it con- 
venient.” 

“Thank you, a thousand thanks ; I kiss monsieur’s hands,” said the 
graceful Southron. 

“I wish you success, de bon cceur. Carry my regards to the 
Count di Schiara when you see him. Adieu, mon enfant.” 

“Adieu, monsieur.” 

And once more the child passed out into the cheerless night. 

But weeks and months went by, and still no clew was found, 
though weary feet went from place to place, seeking the trace that 
was effaced. Even Guido di Schiara could not find the thread he 
had lost in the Austrian capital; and the world began to say that 
the assassin had become a suicide. But three knew him too well to 
fear that — those two who were seeking him through the wide world, 
and one who remained shut up in what had been his home and hers 
— the atheist mother. 


MANUSCRIPT XXIX. 

“An army of phantoms vast and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul.” 

Pursued as by a thousand demons, I dared not pause or rest any- 
where. Rest ! for me there was none ; by day and by night in hour- 
ly dread of capture, in dread of the phantom that never left me ! 
how could I ever again know what rest or peace meant? I had 
flung them behind me once and for all. 

Holland was too near; and I fled to Baden for no particular rea- 
son, with no particular plan, save the instinct of preservation. The 
same instinct drove me still onward, to a capital where my trail could 
be lost in the multitude. I assumed a new disguise, and fled to 
Vienna, but I dared not stop even there — his blood rose up from the 
earth, and cried aloud, “ Thou art accursed forever!” 

And I fled before the curse as before a living thing. 

Disguised so that I might hope to baffle even Guido di Schiara 
himself, I left Vienna, and made my way, my escape, into Switzer- 
land; and then leaving all frequented routes, I turned aside on foot 
into the mountains, seeking there some obscure hiding-place, where 
I might be safe for at least a time. I had money that would last me 
for a long time, and I hoped vaguely to be able to communicate with 
my mother, and when pursuit was given up as hopeless, escape into 
some far-off land. 

Let me pass on quickly. Late one night I arrived, worn and 
weary— oh! how weary — at a small hospice, far away up in the 
mountains, a lovely secluded spot, to which I had strayed, and where 
surely they would never think of looking for me, even if they had 
traced me through all my disguises, from Vienna, or beyond the 


176 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Austrian frontier. So remote was this hospice, that the good monks 
might almost have been in another sphere so little did even a whis- 
per from the outer world ever reach them. I say good monks, and 
I mean good, though some may smile if they read this. There were 
only ten of them, old men ; but as far as ever I saw, they lived in 
peace with each other, and in fulfilment of the ministering duties 
they had undertaken, simply and sincerely; and to me they were 
ever kind and courteous hosts during the whole twelve months I 
boarded in their hospice. An atheist I came there, and an atheist I 
left, sneering, scoffing in secret at their credulity and blind religion, 
at what they believed their Deity and faith ; but though of course it 
was impossible that they should not find out my scepticism, I took 
care it should never offend their prejudices. If they had known, if 
they had only known, that they were sheltering a murderer, would 
they not have cast me out from among them? 

******* 

I look back with an intense and sickening horror to that period 
when Time itself seemed to stand still, and leave me to the awful 
monotony of solitude, to the fearful companionship of remorse. 

At first I had been stunned, blinded; hurried on in my frantic 
flight from thought; but here — here! Was that solitude that was 
peopled with a thousand demons, when the light and the darkness 
became alike to me in the black hell of my guilt? 

It grew upon me day by day, and never left me for a second — his 
face, his voice — the ever-living presence of my gigantic crime — “an 
army of phantoms vast and wan,” it was before me wherever I turn- 
ed; in the sunlight and moonlight; in the glare of day and in the 
gloom of night; looking at me through the darkness with those 
deep, spiritual eyes, whose sad, doomed beauty filled me with un- 
utterable terror; in every sound, through everything, I heard his 
voice, now far away, now in my very ears. 

Was I going mad? Was the phantom only in my brain, or real? 
Did I try to find oblivion in sleep, and find him there, too, as he had 
been in life, as I had known him, in his boyhood and his manhood? 
but ever at his side there was a slight figure, with its loving face and 
deep-blue eyes. But one night I dreamed I heard the wild, sobbing 
sea and the wailing wind, and through all that strange, horrible 
darkness of a dream I saw a grave, and I knew, I thought, whose it 
was. I knew the sculpture over it was his work only, but I was im- 
pelled by a fearful fascination to draw near and read the names and 
dates; his name and hers, Nina Theodora Claverhouse, his wife; and 
the dates seven days between them. 

The horror of that dream awoke me, and I cursed aloud in my 
guilt and misery, for I knew then that she was dead, and murder 
twice written on my brow ! 

Had that wretched woman’s curse come true now — “There is a 
devil in you that wfill drag you down to hell, where you belong?” 

Did my brain reel? Did all my German lore crowd month after 
month more darkly on it? Did I see a murdered corpse wherever 
I turned, and go about, a fearful, shivering, haunted thing, the ghost 


TWO WHO MET IN THE CAFE ITALIEN. 


177 


of my former self? Did I know myself, or was it an evil spirit in 
my likeness, to whom I was sold, body and soul? Did I look behind 
me, trembling like an aspen, and see no shadow in sunlight or moon- 
light, and creep away into darkness, that I might not miss it? 

Did the past come back to me, hour by hour, and did I hear again 
my scoffing sneer, wondering dizzily why my voice was so changed ? 
“You are a dreamer, fond of fabled beliefs;” and then, as from a 
distance — oh, how far off ! came his answer — “ Fabled, Casper? Ah, 
I forgot, you have no faith or God — pover infelice.” Did I almost 
shriek aloud, and shut my ears, to shut out those deep, pitying tones? 
Did I mutter fearfully that I was going mad, that my nerves were 
shaken, that I was the slave of a disordered fancy? a slave! and 
then shut my ears, stifle it as I would? Did I hear that strange, soft, 
haunting voice answer back ; 

“You, Casper, are the slave of your atheism and your pleasure.” 

Did I beat my murderer’s hands on the floor, and stagger dizzily 
away like a blind man, and then lift them up and curse God, if there 
was a God, hugging my dark atheism, as I had hugged that fell thing 
years ago — long years ago? 

Long years ago! yet when I asked them how long I had been 
among them, they looked at me surprised, and answered, “ Twelve 
months.” 

One year — only a year! it had seemed a lifetime of agony and 
torture ! 

I left it one night, lest its horrors should kill my brain. Excite- 
ment, oblivion, or I should go mad ! And I fled away into the wide 
world again. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

TWO WHO MET IN THE CAFE ITALIEN. 

Once again in Paris, but now the snow was falling fast, and the 
wind drove it full against the window of an elegant private apart- 
ment in the Cafe Italien ; cold and cheerless enough without, though 
within the blaze of fire and gaslight made it bright. On a fauteuil 
lay a man’s cap, of the kind worn now in the Royal Navy, and a 
small black velvet woman’s cap, with a thick veil attached to it. 
Their owners were the sole occupants of the apartment — a tall 
bronzed man of seven or eight and thirty, who was pacing slowly to 
and fro, and a girl of sixteen, who sat at the table with her face rest- 
ing on one slender hand, and her dark eyes anxiously watching her 
companion. 

“And what,” she said at last, “have Luigi and Auguste been 
doing?” 

The stern brow unbent, and the lines of care and sorrow softened 
for a moment, at the sound of her voice. 

“They have been doing their best— searching, watching, as we 

12 


178 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


have, but with as little success. No stone has been left unturned; 
but I tell you, Marie, that in all my experience I was never so utter- 
ly at a loss — a dead loss. I do not know which way to turn; it is 
all darkness and misery — misery ! Anna, if I pause, or think a mo- 
ment of the past, I feel crushed beneath the weight of loss. Time 
but deepens such wounds.” 

“ It is a poisoned wound,” she said, wearily dropping her head on 
her hands. Even the power to comfort was gone from her for the 
time. 

He looked at the drooping girlish form, and heavy tears came into 
his dark eyes. 

“ Forgive me, mon cceur,” he said, bending over her with inex- 
pressible tenderness; “I did not mean to pain you— the very first 
time, too, of meeting after so many months. I am selfish.” 

“You selfish!” She looked up in the dark, handsome face and 
lifted the soft, silky black liair from his brow. “You are too like 
Mm to be selfish. Your whole life has been a sacrifice.” 

“Hush, hush! nothing done for him was sacrifice,” said Guido, 
turning aside. 

She said nothing, only lifted his hand to her lips in silence. 

Life was not all dark and sorrowful while he had her love. 

She first broke the stillness. 

“You wrote to me to meet you here, but you have not yet told me 
what you have done. Where did you go to when you left Marseilles 
a month ago?” 

“I went to Vienna again on the chance that, even after a year, I 
might recover the trail, but I have only found out how our search 
has been so useless.” 

“ Tell me, then, Guido.” 

“ Our advertisements are, you know, still in the journals, and one 
of them was answered by an English gentleman, personally, in fact, 
for he called upon me ; for he said that what he had to say was so 
slight and merely supposititious, that he was almost ashamed to 
trouble me. I thanked him, and told him that to an experienced 
detective the merest shadow was often a clew. 

‘ ‘ It seemed he had just come from a walking tour in the Swiss 
mountains, and had found his way one night to an obscure and most 
remote little hospice, where he remained two days. In conversation 
the monks mentioned a guest who had left them a month before 
in the night, suddenly and mysteriously, after being there a whole 
year. He had, they said, never gone beyond the walls, and had 
shunned even them ; had always seemed preoccupied and unhap- 
py; and had latterly seemed sinking into a nervous, unsound state 
of mind, starting at every sound; evidently in a constant state of 
dread and fear. ‘No wonder/ a monk remarked, ‘when Monsieur 
Schwartz was an atheist. ’ All this struck my informant as worthy 
of reporting, and on arriving in Vienna he went to a bureau de po- 
lice, learned there that I, Monsieur di Schiari, was in Vienna, and 
called.” 

“Monsieur r Anglais was clever,” observed the cameo-seder. 


TWO WHO MET IN THE CAFE ITALIEN. 


179 


‘‘Ay. I left for la Suisse that day, and went to the Hospice of 
St. Michel, where I learned all they could tell of their late guest, and 
it tallied sufficiently well, despite his clever disguise. I was satis- 
fied that the bearded, spectacled, middle - aged Monsieur Schwartz 
was Wolfgang.” 

“ Then, monsieur, there is a step gained,” said Anna-Marie, with a 
momentary flush on her colorless cheek. “We are sure he is alive, 
and once more in the world.” 

“Ay, and will remain there. I see how it has been: the solitude 
and monotony of the hospice was more than his guilty soul could 
bear ; and he has fled, trusting either that pursuit is over, or that he 
can escape it. 1 was wrong to give way to despair even for that 
moment,” he said, with a sudden gleam in his brilliant eyes; “ there 
is hope now, though he has a month’s start of us ; he has broken 
from the torture of solitude, and will seek forgetfulness in wild dis- 
sipation; he will rival his early youth, only now he must live by 
gambling.” 

“ Or get money from his mother, monsieur.” 

“Mia cara, he may, but I hardly think he will try it; if he does, 
so much the better for us.” 

‘ ‘ Guido, he may have fled to America. ” 

“ It is possible, but Auguste is in New York, and has been for six 
weeks. Wolfgang has a disadvantage, not in being handsome, but 
in being peculiar; his appearance is such a curious mixture of creole 
and German. If he were fair he could disguise better; by change, 
not mere concealment.” 

‘ ‘ I understand you ; a fair person may paint or stain dark, but a 
dark one cannot paint fair so easily ; though a young, slightish man 
may become stout and old, and dark-brown hair like his become 
fair, or dead black.” 

“Exactly; but no disguise, I rather think, could deceive you or 
me.” 

“Non, monsieur; none. But what if he hides again in some ob- 
scure corner?” 

“He cannot, unless he communicates with madame his mother,” 
answered the other. “ He must have money. I think he will come 
here to Paris, like a moth to the candle ; and I will leave you here, 
for I must go to London for a few days on business. It is impossi- 
ble to own large landed property, and spend money as we have been 
doing, without the master-hand now and then appearing; and Doc- 
tor John is not well. Come, Anna, my darling, I will take you to 
your lodging.” 

She smiled faintly, as he carefully wrapped her mantle about her. 

“Do you forget,” she said, “that Corsare and I are always out till 
late? It is only in darkness that such as Wolfgang dare venture 
out.” 

He only stifled a heavy sigh, as she took his arm, and under his 
care, for at least a short while, left the Cafe Italien. 


180 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


MANUSCRIPT NXX. 

IN A CAFE IN A FRONTIER TOWN. 

Once more in the wide world, hunted like a wild beast, a price 
upon my head, fearful of every sound and face and voice; yet my 
disguise was good, my transformation complete, and the passport 
which took me over the French frontier in no way answered to the 
descriptions and photographs out of Casper Yon Wolfgang. 

“ M. Franz Hermann, age forty years, height five feet ten inches, 
slight stoop in his carriage, reddish hair, turning gray, thick whis- 
kers, mustache, and beard, and florid, brown complexion, thick, red- 
dish eyebrows, arched, black eyes, straight, well-shaped nose, scar of 
a sabre-cut across the left cheek, and a small purple spot under the 
right eye, the face much wrinkled.” 

Who would know in this M. Hermann the once handsome, dash- 
ing St. Leger Wolfgang? and I felt something almost like security 
as I turned one evening into a cafe in a small French frontier town. 

There were several men in the room smoking, talking, and reading 
the journals. One or two were English tourists, the rest were French, 
two Italians, a light-haired, wild-looking German student, and one 
American gentleman — a Southerner, I found by what he said. I 
took a place apart, ordered coffee and one of the day’s journals, and 
read, the hum and buzz of talk coming vaguely to my ears for some 
time; but at last an exclamation from the Englishman caught my 
ear, and chained every sense I had. 

“ By Jove! that everlasting advertisement again! One is tired of 
seeing it. ” 

“ What is that, sir?” asked the American. 

“ This one, for the apprehension of Wolfgang, the murderer of the 
great sculptor, Claverhouse. ” 

“Oh, ah, yes; it has been in the American papers for a year at 
least,” returned the other, while I sat silent, intent. 

“Ay, and in the French, Italian, German, everywhere. My belief 
is, the villain is dead. The devil’s got him long since, or he would 
have been taken.” 

“ It was the most horrible and deliberate murder that has startled 
the world for many years,” remarked a Frenchman. “The poor 
young wife, too— it killed her, I believe?” 

* ‘ Oh yes ; she was a mere girl. It broke her heart, poor child : 
she died the night before his funeral.” 

“What was the motive for the crime?” asked an Italian, laying 
down the journal he was reading. 

“Oh, the old story — jealousy. Wolfgang was a cousin and re- 
jected suitor of Mrs. Claverhouse.” 


IN A CAFE IN A FRONTIER TOWN. 


181 


“Do you know, Signor Inglese, whether II Angelo finished that 
sculpture he was doing before his marriage— one, I mean, for the 
principal figure of which the Conte di Schiari sat? or is ‘The 
Wreck ’ his last work?” 

“No; he finished the other shortly before his death, and it was on 
view in London after that for three or four months. The Duke of 

S offered a fabulous sum for it, but the brother, Egmont Claver- 

house — the Conte di Schiara— refused to sell it at all, or any other 
work of II Angelo’s in his possession.” 

“A pity; but of course they are visible, for Schiara (I have met 
him) is too true a lover of art to shut it up.” 

“He is; they are now in the famous picture-gallery at the family 
seat, Ernescliffe, and open to the public. ” 

“ How came he to be called ‘II Angelo?’ ” asked the German stu- 
dent. 

“Well,” said the Englishman, half laughing, “it originated, I be- 
lieve, with a child, one of his models, the cameo-seller, who witnessed 
his murder. She found his name, I suppose, difficult to her Italian 
tongue, and used to call him ‘II Angelo.’ The name somehow got 
into the Italian journals, and was taken up.” 

“Are they still searching for the murderer?” asked the American. 

“Oh no; of course not. These advertisements are kept up by 
the brother, but the police gave it up long ago, months back; they 
think he is dead.” 

“ Suicide, most likely.” 

“I don’t know. He was a sceptic, a regular scoffer; and I fancy 
these atheists, with all their talk, don’t care to face death. I’d sooner 
put an army of bold, open sinners on a battle-field than an army of 
scoffers and infidels.” 

“So would I, sir. Hadn’t Wolfgang a mother?” 

“ Yes; terrible for her, poor woman! She has remained shut up 
in her own house ever since the murder. He has a half-brother, too. 
Sir Walter Falconbridge ; but he and his family went to Cannes, and 
are still there, I believe.” 

“I wish,” laughed the American, “ that I could catch sight of the 
villain; I would earn the £1000.” 

All this I heard, and turned perfectly sick. I could not bear it 
longer, and I left the cafe. 

I could not sleep that night. Is it a wonder? My crime stood be- 
fore me in appalling magnitude; and once more I fled before the 
hideous phantom, before the mad terror of capture. It seemed 
around me, before, behind, above, in eve’ / face and sound. I fled 
to Homburg, and flung myself into play ; anythin \ for forgetfulness 
— oblivion. I laughed the loudest, and played the last and wildest; 
yet I won, and won largely. My tongue was most glib, and my jests 
the most scoffing; but in the wildest revel I dared not pause or look 
behind, for it was there — a ghastly Presence, a whisper ever in my 
ears of what might have been. Oh, for one moment’s power to re- 
trace the past, and undo the deed that was done! Oh, if I had only 
listened in other years to the being who would have been my good 


182 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


angel ; but I would not. I put away the light, and now I stood a 
hunted felon, mad with the remorseful, frantically futile wish to 
undo the irrevocable past ; alone, in soulless darkness — a murderer. 

A hunted felon! What if the police had given me up, and left 
me to be my own curse? he, the brother, had not; he had distrusted 
me from the first, and watched me, and him I feared. I knew Gui- 
do di Schiara too well to dare to hope: as long as he had life he 
would never abandon the pursuit. 

I dared not long remain in the same place, or retain the same 
character; but excitement, play, I must have! Better to take my 
chance in cities and capitals than again face the horrors of solitude. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE MAN IN VELVETEEN WHOM GIOVAN’ MET. 

“ Baffled, weary, and dishearten’d,” 

sick at heart, alone, and sad, the cameo -seller turned one snowy 
night from the brilliantly lighted Boulevard des Italiens, and sat 
down on a door-step with her dog, listening vaguely to the notes of 
an organ somewhere down the rue, playing that beautiful and never- 
wearied-of melody, “Ah! che la morte.” The child heard at first 
vaguely, then listening, till the heavy tears gathered in the dark eyes 
and fell fast on her black mantle. To her it was inexpressibly sor- 
rowful, for it was one the sculptor had often sung for her in Rome, 
and it was, Guido had told her, the last song he had sung the night 
of his murder; and, unheeding the cold and the falling snow, she sat 
with her face hidden in her mantle, not noticing that the sound had 
ceased, till a sudden movement of Corsare and a man’s step in the 
snow made her look up, and rising, stand still. The new-comer was 
an organ-man, walking slowly and wearily, with his hands in his 
pockets, but he looked up at the dog’s whine; the eyes of the two 
wanderers met, and the recognition was as immediate as delighted. 

“Giovan’ Tofanni!” 

“Anna-Marie! How glad I am!” exclaimed the Parmese, clasping 
warmly the hand she held out. “ I thought we should meet again 
some way or other. Your dog knew me, too, and was glad.” 

“As I am; Corsare always welcomes a friend; but you seem 
weary, Giovan’. Unsling your organ, and sit down.” 

“It is too cold; and I do not feel so weary now I see a friendly 
face and hear your gentle voice. Why do you sit? it snows, and is 
too cold for such a delicate-looking signorina as you.” 

“ Thank you, mon ami, I am not delicate: but it is cold — very; I 
will walk with you a little way on, if you will have me.” She 
wrapped her mantle about her, shivering, drew closer the black veil 
that covered her head, and the two walked slowly onward. 


I'HE MAN IN VELVETEEN WHOM GIOVAN’ MET. 183 

“ So you are still a cameo-seller ?” said Giovan’, glancing at her 
box. 

“Yes, how should I be anything else?” 

“ Oh, je ne sais pas,” shrugging his shoulders, with a smile in his 
bright eyes, “ only the Madonna meant you for une grande dame, 
not a cameo-seller.” 

“ Thanks. If ever I am une grande dame, I will remember Gio- 
van’, ” said the Proven^ale, half smiling; 

He laughed and touched her dress. 

“ Why have you abandoned your graceful Roman dress for this 
black dress and mantle?” 

“ It is more convenient at present; one does not always care to be 
so marked,” she answered. 

“ But you will be marked, in spite of dress , 0 said the young man, 
frankly; “you must know that; plenty have told you that.” 

The girl colored slightly, but she sighed. 

‘ ‘ I wish, Giovan’, that every one had said it as kindly and harm* 
lessly as you; insult is very painful to bear.” 

“ Ay, but we get used to everything,” said Giovan’, giving his 
load a hoist. 

Anna-Marie smiled, amused at the thorough man’s answer. 

“Not that,” she said, quietly. “A woman scarcely gets used to 
insult — it stings each time; but let that be,” she added, shivering. 
“ How long have you been here? where have you been all the year 
since I saw you in London?” 

“Oh, mostly in England, or in France. I mean to go further south 
till the winter is over. One of my companions and I are going down 
to Marseilles. Why don’t you?” 

Anna de Laval shook her head. 

“No; I must stop here a while. I am engaged to several artists.” 

“ Ah, I wish Madame la Sainte Yierge had given me beauty. 
Look,” said he, suddenly, stopping her at a shop, “here is a face 
rather handsome, but I would sooner have my own than this— eh?” 

It was, among many others, a photograph of Casper Yon Wolf- 
gang, below an advertisement for him, that caused the Italian’s re- 
mark. 

“Oh yes, in truth!” said Anna, energetically, and drawing him on 
again. “ He is a maudit, and will hang yet for his crime.” 

“He would thank you. His portrait,” said Giovan’, “reminds 
me of a man I saw to-day looking in a boutique, I think, at this very 
photograph. I was playing at a house farther up, and noticed him 
as I stood, first, because he looked so long in the shop, and because 
he was of my fraternity.” 

“ An organ-man?” 

Giovan’ nodded, and said, laughing, 

“ But he had not been one long, though. He was not used to it, 
for even as he stood he kept hoisting the organ, as one does an unac- 
customed weight; he walked with it uneasily, bending under it, and 
he was neither small nor weak-looking; and when he stopped at a 
house to play— oh! mon Dieu — I did laugh so!” 


184 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Despite herself, Anna was amused at her companion’s lively chat 
ter; at least it diverted thought, and was a friendly voice. She en- 
couraged him. 

“ Was he so awkward, then?” 

“ Awkward! — you have said it! he was half a minute unslinging; 
and when he had played the first tune of his repertoire, he fumbled 
at the stops, evidently not knowing well how to handle them; when 
they paid him he seemed half ashamed, and when he went on again 
he hoisted his organ in the most gauche manner. ‘ Mon camarade,’ 
thought I, ‘I will have some plaisanterie with you.’ ” 

“And did you?” 

“Yes; I overtook him easily, hut first I looked in the boutique , to 
see what had attracted him.” 

“You were very curious.” 

“Yes, curious, if you will, but there was nothing that I could see 
except a picture of the empress and that photograph and advertise- 
ment. So I overtook and saluted him.” 

“What was he like?” 

“That is just like a woman to ask,” laughed the Parmese, merri- 
ly. “He was no beauty, and not under forty; he had long, rusty, 
warm, brown hair.” 

“Reddish, in fact?” 

“How rude you are, mademoiselle. N o, not reddish. He wore 
all his hair thick, like an orang-outang ; he had shaggy, overhang- 
ing eyebrows ; and his eyes were, I think, black. ” 

“Not as sharp as yours, perhaps, mon ami?” put in Anna, very 
quietly. 

“Not beautiful, like yours, ” retorted Giovanni. ‘ ‘ Mais retour nons 
& nos moutons.” 

“A moment; was he Italian, this novice?” 

“He! no; English, I think. Why do you ask?” 

“No matter; continue. What did you say to him?” 

“ I was very polite. ‘ Good-day, comrade,’ said I; 'are we going 
the same way?’ He did not seem inclined to accept my company, 
and answered that he was going straight on, whether that was my 
way he did not know; so, though he evidently wished me at the 
devil, I kept on. ‘ You have not taken up this long?’ said I, touch- 
ing his organ. ‘Long enough,’ said he, shortly; ‘this many a 
month.’” 

“ Which you did not believe?” 

“Certainly not. I had eyes; so I answered, ‘ Je ne suis pas un 
blanc-bec,’ and asked him what he had been looking at in the shop- 
window. ‘Nothing particular.’ ‘It is a hard life enough,’ I re- 
marked, ‘especially in winter; and till one is used to it the organ is 
a weight. Yours is new, eh? your stops and handle seemed to work 
stiff, or else you are new to the organ.’ He told me, savagely., ‘ Al- 
lez a l’enfer.’ So I returned the compliment by informing him that 
M. le Diable would certainly receive him ‘ a l’enfer,’ and if he had 
any message for him, I was at his service.” 

“For which, I suppose, he cursed you?” 


TIIE MAN IN VELVETEEN WHOM GIOVAN’ MET. 185 

“I dare swear it, but I did not stop to hear it. I turned on my 
heel, and left so surly a comrade to himself. Ah, who is that who 
saluted you?” he said, interrupting himself. 

A middle-aged man in a military cloak, whitened with snow, sa- 
luted in passing, but immediately wheeled, and addressed her in a 
low voice. “ Go home, my child; it is snowing fast, and too late for 
you to be out — after ten. Who is that man you are with?” 

“A wanderer, like myself, monsieur; a former camarade.” 

“H’m,” said M. Lamonte, still unsatisfied. “But go home, my 
dear child.” 

“Not yet, monsieur,” said Anna -Marie ; “not just yet, if you 
please.” 

The significance in her soft voice, slight as it was, caught his ear 
directly. 

“Eh, quoi!” he said, briskly; “have you?” 

“ Chut, chut! monsieur. I will, perhaps, see you to-morrow morn- 
ing.” 

“ Good; at ten o’clock,” said he, and walked rapidly on. 

“Who is that?” asked Giovan’. 

“It is Monsieur Lamonte.” 

“ Sainte Yierge! then are you an agent of police?” 

“ No. Are you going to your lodgings?” 

“Yes, it snows fast. But I will first escort you to yours.” 

“ Thanks; but I am not going in yet. Which way do you turn?” 
for he had paused at the corner of a somewhat narrow, long street, 
lighted less by lamps than the glare from two or three buildings, 
which both knew well to be gambling-houses. 

“Down this — it is a shorter way. What! not you, too?” as she 
still kept at his side. 

“ Are you tired of my company?” 

“No, indeed; but — ” 

“I am right enough. I know Paris of old — eh, Corsare?” 

Corsare licked her hand, and followed close behind her, while his 
mistress and her companion kept on, though the snow was driving 
in their faces. 

But as they neared one of the maisons-de-jeu Giovanni stopped 
abruptly, and laid his hand on the girl’s arm. 

“ Look!” he said; “ that man in velveteen who has just come out 
of the maison-de-jeu — it is he — my novice. I know him, despite 
this blinding snow, for I saw him under the glare of light. I won- 
der if he has gambled away his organ,” he added, laughing. “He 
< has stopped, uncertain. Do you see?” 

She stood bending forward, straining her eyes to see the figure he 
pointed out. 

“Peste on the snow and darkness!” she muttered between her 
teeth; then putting her slight hand on Giovanni’s, she said, quickly, 
“Giovan’, if you would do me a favor, go up to him and address 
him. I want to hear his voice.” 

“You cannot at this distance.” 

“ It must do; he must not see me. Go quick.” 


186 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


She drew herself and dog hastily under an archway, and Giovan 1 
walked quickly towards the man, little guessing that Anna watched 
as if for life and death. She saw him pause near the man in velvet- 
een, and heard him speak in his jesting, jaunty manner; but the 
man’s voice, as he answered, came indistinctly through the snow and 
wind. She could only tell that it was gruff and angry, though for 
all that, and through every disadvantage, something in it struck her 
finely attuned ear as not belonging to his condition. 

Then she saw Giovan’ turn on his heel laughing, while the man 
stood looking, probably scowling, after him. Anna saw him; she 
would fain have warned her companion to pass the archway by, 
but she dared not move while the man stood watching. 

Giovanni came up, and paused, asking gayly, 

“ Have I done my duty?” 

“Yes, yes; go on, for the Madonna’s sake; take no more notice of 
me; I will see you at your lodgings. Where is it? quick!” 

“ Number 10 Rue d’Eau; good-night;” and Giovan’, taking the 
cue, walked off. 

Pausing at the street - corner, and looking back, he saw, dimly 
through the snow, the man in velveteen walking swiftly away ; and 
he fancied he saw Anna’s slight figure and white dog leave the arch- 
way and follow; but it was so indistinct and momentary, for the 
heavy falling snow had so assimilated both girl and dog to its own 
whiteness, that it might well be his fancy. He could not distinguish 
them from the snow, and hurried home, wondering who and what 
this patrician cameo-seller really was. 


MANUSCRIPT XNXI. 

THE CLOUDS GATHER. 

I was once more in Paris, the gayest capital in Europe. What 
made me go there , of all places? a fascination, an inevitable fate? I 
know not. I went because there I could find excitement, because I 
could pass my days in a crowd and my nights at the gaming-table ; 
not that I dared now to set foot within those palaces which I had 
frequented in my wild youth, for there might be one chance in a 
thousand of encountering some who had known me in former years. 

Former years ! then I was indeed wild, almost a roue, but still free, 
free of blood-guiltiness, still myself, St. Leger Wolfgang; now I stood 
in the same city, a haunted thing, a ghost, a shadow, a devil among 
men; an assassin, fearful of light and of darkness, of men and of 
solitude. 

I left the German M. Hermann at Dijon. I came into Paris Ru- 
dolph Sletzinger, from Frankfort, organ-player. 

I laughed in bitter derision at my transformation. I, a common 


THE CLOUDS GATHER. 


187 


organ-man ! I, who had always despised the whole class, holding 
them lazy, idle knaves, who took to it because they would not work ; 
I, who had never seen one of them without a sneer and laugh at Nina, 
because she had always a kind word and often a silver piece for 
them. 

Now I was to find that she had been right; it was work, hard 
work, too, for those who had to live by it, or follow it for years; 
walking and standing from morning till night with a heavy load, 
for a full-sized box-organ is heavy. It came strangely : I felt ashamed, 
miserably ashamed, in my disguise; it seemed as if every one must 
see through it: pride of class, the class and name I had dishonored, 
which crime had not dragged down, was wounded now by this hum- 
ble occupation ; the pence I earned stung my hand, and many a time 
I would have given much to fling them back with a curse ; the in- 
strument, too, pained me to carry, to handle — it always seemed slip- 
ping; and the strap pressed on my chest, and impeded my breathing, 
and, being unaccustomed to it, I felt it a burden every moment; I 
could not set the stops or hoist and unsling it readily; and it made 
me very awkward in every manipulation of it, so markedly, that it 
was instantly detectable by any professed organ-player, for one came 
up with me one day, curse him ! and told me so. I shook him off ; 
how could I bear any comrade when I dreaded every living creat- 
ure ? It was a heavy, cold day, with a gloomy gray sky, threaten- 
ing snow. 

I stood that evening by the Seine, with the darkness above and 
around me, and the deep, dark river flowing at my feet; it looked so 
peaceful and quiet. Was “Lethe’s fabled stream” a dream of the 
ancients, or a reality? Death, death! hideous words of terror to me; 
was death nothingness? Was their no Deity, no future, no soul? 
What was soul and immortality and future? the shadowy mysticism 
of my German lore, or — No, it could not be. I dared not think ; the 
grave must, must be the end; to doubt that were perdition. 

I wrung my blood-stained hands, and fled away to the gaming-table. 
I remember seeing a book there, and opening it. It was “ Manfred.” 
I saw the words — I read, as by a fascination, that fearful incanta- 
tion, till the large drops of sweat stood on my forehead ; and flinging 
the book fiercely away, I turned to the table, and played wildly, reck- 
lessly, with a mad excitement, that the maddest gambler there never 
had rivalled. How should they? they had no blood to forget, they 
had no hideous crime to scare them alike from life and death. Yet 
after a while even the very madness of excitement appalled me, and 
drove me from the heated salon , out again into the night. 

How cool the wind seemed ; the ground was white, the snow fall- 
ing fast, too pure to touch me, yet I turned my face to it, but as I 
turned, I fancied I saw two figures through the darkness and snow, 
coming along the deserted street. Of one I was sure — a man with 
a load on his back, it seemed, but of the other I was not sure. I 
noticed the man suddenly quicken his pace and approach where I 
stood. I knew him now, curse him ! the organ-grinder who had ad- 
dressed me in the morning, and he did so again. 


188 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Ah, bon soir, mon camarade; comment vous portez vous? have 
you staked your organ on a last throw of the dice, and lost?” 

A fierce answer in my own voice was on my lips, but I remem- 
bered in time my assumed character, and spoke in a rough tone. 

“ What the devil is it to you if I staked it against all your saints 
and gods, and lost?” 

“ Oh, nothing, mon brave; nothing, if you played your soul against 
hell, and lost,” answered the man. 

“ Damn you!” broke furiously from me. 

‘ ‘ Merci, vous-en, ” said he, turning on his heel, laughing. 

I stood, cursing my passion and imprudence, and watched him, 
with a vague alarm and fast-rising suspicion. Why did he turn back, 
instead of keeping his way on? Had he come up to me on purpose, 
and spoken with a purpose? guilt made me fear even such trifles. I 
saw his figure dimly through the driving snow pause near the spot 
from which he had quickened his pace before. I am sure he turned 
towards the houses, as if speaking to some one, and then instantly 
walk rapidly away, the way he had come. 

Terror seized me — I scarcely knew of what or of whom, but of 
something ; and I fled, turning constantly to look behind, to see it 
through the driving snow and darkness, and looking in vain; but 
walk as I would, it came on faster, a nightmare horror from which 
I could not fly. But I kept on madly, up one street, down another, 
to baffle my pursuer, if one there were beyond my crime, till at last 
I reached the miserable ruelle in which I lodged. Dared I stop there? 
no, not for an hour. Something stronger than myself impelled me 
still to fly, to escape from Paris, from France, even from Europe. 

I dared not even pause to take more than a cloak, but escaped as 
I was, throwing aside the disguise I then had, as being the one I 
should be described under, and for a few hours trusting perforce to 
the sole disguise of a low, broad hat, and large winter cloak, the im- 
mense collar of which, drawn up, concealed all the lower part of 
my face. 

But to pass the barrieres at midnight might excite suspicion, and 
I waited until near four o’clock. 

Then I fled. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

LOUIS BONHEUR EARNS FOUR HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD. 

The darkness and dense snow-storm stood enemies to the Proven- 
9ale that night, for in its obscurity and among a maze of small streets 
she at last lost the figure that had flitted on before her, and she 
stopped, worn and weary in body, but heart, mind, every faculty and 
nerve strung up to the highest tension. That the man in velveteen was 
St. Leger Wolfgang she felt sure enough to make her very heart beat 
with sickening hope and fear of having again lost him ; everything 


LOUIS BONHEUR EARNS THE REWARD. 


189 


that Giovan’ had related — the man’s evident newness to his calling, 
and equally evident shame under it — his looking so long at the pho- 
tograph — had struck her enough to rouse suspicion, now especially 
when her whole bent was to distrust everything; the man’s appear- 
ing from a maison-de-jeu , more akin to what we call so emphatically 
“a gambling hell his watching Giovan’; and when the Parmese 
left her again, his instant flight — for flight it was, though he never 
went beyond a headlong walk; his constant, hurried looking back, 
convinced her that her suspicion was right, and when the man dis- 
appeared she stopped with a deep-uttered — 

“Maladetta!” 

And for a moment the girl felt stunned, but only for a moment. 
A mind like hers could not be inactive or crushed ; driven from one 
hold it immediately turned to another, and did now. 

The hour was late — between eleven and twelve— and Wolfgang 
could not leave Paris until morning, except on foot or in a private 
conveyance, in either of which case he could be traced, even if he left 
directly; if he waited till daylight she had at least six hours the 
start of him, for by that time he would be watched for at every out- 
let. 

She could not communicate with M. Lamonte until early morning, 
and meanwhile — 

“Meanwhile, Corsare mio,”said the weary child, “we must send 
for Monsieur Guido.” 

The only telegraph-office open at that hour, the only one of which 

she knew, at any rate, was R 's, which was a good distance from 

the neighborhood where she found herself ; nor was it a very pleas- 
ant hour or safe neighborhood for a young and beautiful girl, though 
the wolf-hound was perhaps an effectual guardian from any personal 
annoyance. Still, neither hour nor place nor weariness daunted the 
Proven 9 ale. 

“ It must be — time is everything,” she muttered ; and wrapping her 
snow-white mantle closer, she retraced her steps to the more busy 
quarters. 

It was past one when the cameo-seller entered R ’s well-lighted, 

warm office, and addressed one of the clerks. 

“Monsieur, I want a message sent to London; can you send it 
now?” 

“In its turn, mademoiselle.” 

‘ ‘ Pardon, monsieur, I will pay double, triple, but it must go now ; 
it is for life or death.” 

An older man, evidently of authority, interposed : 

“Very well, mademoiselle; it shall go this moment: tell it me, if 
you please,” and he took his pen. 

“Address,” said Anna de Laval, “to Monsieur di Schiara, No. 15 
Square, London. Come over directly with the warrant. Anna.” 

“ Your address, mademoiselle?” 

“No, none; he knows it. You will send, monsieur?” she added, 
earnestly, as she paid the price. 

“ It is being sent now.” 


190 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“ A thousand thanks. Good-night, monsieur.” 

“ I know that face,” said the elder man, when she was gone. “ I 
have seen her, I think, selling cameos on the Boulevards. A war- 
rant! There is a criminal in the question.” 

“ Ay, I wonder how that foreigner — who is she?” 

“ Oh, a police-agent, no doubt. Schiara, you know, was the name 
of that famous man they had — that Italian;” and he once more turned 
to his work, while Fleur-de-Marie and her faithful hound made their 
way back to her lodging; and utterly worn out, both child and dog 
slept — the hound soundly, the girl fitfully, restlessly, wakefully, 
dreaming that she was doing wrong ; and with the first dawn of the 
cold winter’s morning she and her companion were up and abroad 
again. 

It was not yet seven o’clock, but the wind had driven the snow into 
drifts, and a hard frost had frozen the ground to something of the 
consistency of stone. 

The first thing was to get the exact description of the man in vel- 
veteen for Monsieur le Prefet Lamonte, and he, she knew, would pre- 
fer it first hand ; so Anna-Marie went straight to the Rue d’Eau, to 
the house in which Giovan’ Tofanni lodged. It was an old, narrow, 
dirty ruette, with tall, quaint houses, in no very good repair, neglect- 
ed and weather-beaten. 

A dirty old woman was sweeping the snow from the door-step, 
but she stopped as the cameo-seller came up and addressed her in 
her courteous manner : 

“ Madame, will you have the kindness to tell Giovan’ Tofanni to 
come out to me directly?” 

-What!” said the woman, staring, “he is fast asleep still; it is 
only seven o’clock. ” 

“Then he must wake, madame. Tell him,” she said, quietly put- 
ting a five-franc piece into her hand, ‘ ‘ that the cameo-seller wants 
him.” 

The woman went in. Anna de Laval paced up and down, not be- 
cause of the cold, but because both body and mind were too utterly 
and painfully restless to stand still. 

In q, few minutes the Parmese came out, wide awake enough, 
courtly as ever. 

“Good-day, mademoiselle; you are early.” 

“I have need. You must come with me to Monsieur le Prefet 
Lamonte ; it will be worth your while. ” 

“You are an agent of police, then?” said Giovan*, as he follqwed 
where she led. “ What am I wanted for?” 

'Fhere was in his tone a slight tinge of apprehension, and Anna 
smiled. 

“ Fear nothing, my friend, I am not a police agent; and it is I who 
want you, I who will pay you for my employer. You are simply 
wanted to repeat to Monsieur le Prefet a minute description of the 
man in velveteen whom you saw yesterday.” 

“Oh, is that all?” with evident relief. “I do not like coming 
across the police; do you?” 


LOUIS BONHEUR EARNS THE REWARD. 


191 


“ Oh, I am used to it,” said the girl, carelessly. “ I care nothing 
about them.” 

“ Monsieur le Prefet will not be at his bureau at this hour.” 

“No ; at his own residence, in the Rue de , where we are 

going.” 

Giovan’ said no more. Truth to say, he rather dreaded the prefet, 
as people of the humble class so often do dread officials of any kind ; 
and when at last they reached the house, he fairly sheltered himself 
behind his companion. 

“Monsieur le Prefet was not yet out of bed,” she was told. She 
wrote a line on a card and sent it to him, and the servant shortly re- 
turned with a message, 

“Monsieur would see her in ten minutes;” and she and Giovan’ 
were shown into a small room to wait. 

In a quarter of an hour the prefet appeared, and the Provenpale 
told her story. 

“ Well,” he said, gravely, “ it may be him, mon enfant. I hope it 
is, for you and the count have been indefatigable in the pursuit. 
You,” turning to the Parmese,“can give me the description. Will 
you do so?” 

Giovan’ gave a minute one, and Lamonte took it down on paper. 

“ Thank you.” M. Lamonte was polite to every one. “ That will 
do. Anna, you think he will leave Paris?” 

“Yes, monsieur; without doubt,” 

“ Good; then all the barrieres must be watched, and orders given 
to look for him in the city also. I will see to it directly. I need 
scarcely ask you, who know your business so well, if you have tele- 
graphed to Monsieur di Schiara?” 

“I did, monsieur, at one o’clock this morning.” 

“ Good, child. He may be here, then, by twelve o’clock. He will 
come to the bureau, so be there about midday. You, I suppose,” he 
added, as Anna rose, “have power to employ and pay for informa- 
tion?” 

H Yes, Monsieur le Prefet. If the man has already passed the 
barrieres — ” 

“I shall know it.” 

“ I shall remain near your office, monsieur.” 

“ Do so.” 

And with that they parted. 

In the street the cameo-seller paused, and put some gold in Tofan- 
ni’s hand. 

“Accept it,” she said, quietly, “for the present, and do not leave 
Paris till you hear from me again.” 

Giovan’ looked at her and at the gold, and half laughed, puzzled 
and surprised. 

‘ ‘ Per Bacco ! the signorina is generous. ” 

“No; only just,” she answered, quickly. “Good-by, Giovan’.” 

Giovan’ lifted his hat high, and returning the salute, turned to re- 
trace his steps. The Provencale entered a cafe, and having taken 
spme refreshment walke4 away towards tlje bureau of M. Lamonte, 


192 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


to go through hours of watching and waiting, the heart-sickening 
suffering of hard endurance. 

Hours — yes, only three hours as yet, for it was only eleven o’clock, 
though to her it had seemed as if each minute were an hour; to and 
fro, to and fro, never out of sight of the bureau, not feeling the out- 
ward cold of that winter’s day for the internal fever of anxiety that 
seemed to burn her very heart. 

She had paused for a moment listening to a neighboring church 
clock striking the hour of eleven, when a brisk step came along, a 
man passed her quickly, looked at her, stopped abruptly, and came 
back. 

“A year has altered you,” he said, “but I knew you, and your 
dog there; it is you who came to me a year ago at the Cafe Du- 
s£que.” 

“It was I, Monsieur Bonheur.” 

“Ha, ha! your memory is good too,” said he, with a rough laugh; 
“but you are the very person I should have wished to meet, or I 
must have entered that bureau to earn my reward.” 

“ Reward!” she repeated, drawing a long breath; “for what?” 

“Ah, for what, ma’amselle? Four hundred pounds sterling of- 
fered for any news of one Wolfgang, to whom I sold that revolver. 
I was going to claim it of Monsieur Lamonte.” 

Anna-Marie grasped his arm like a vice. 

“ / will pay it you if you tell me your news; or are you lying?” 

He laughed. 

“ If I could have got it that way, I would long ago ; but you would 
have found me out, and Schiara is a merciless man.” 

“He is right; tell me what you know, and you shall have the 
money to-night.” 

“ Well, I have just come into Paris from Maux in a carriage, and 

just beyond the village of L 1 was looking out, when I saw a 

man walking along very quickly. He had a slouched hat and large 
cloak, but he glanced at the carriage, and I caught a glimpse of his 
face— it was Monsieur Wolfgang, I am sure; that was at nine o’clock, 
or near it.” 

“You are sure of him?” 

“Sure; he is marked, you know.” 

“Holy Madonna! then he is run down at last, and the money is 
yours.” 

“This evening?” 

“Yes, at this office. Good-by.” 

She turned away, all weariness gone, now that there was active 
work to be done, and once more entered the bureau and asked for 
the prefet. He saw her directly. 

“ Monsieur, I have news of the man. When the count arrives, 
tell him to mount instantly and follow me up the Maux road. 

Wolfgang was seen beyond L at nine. I am going to follow 

him in a carriage.” 

“ Not alone, my child; take a sergeant with you, if only for your 
own protection;” and he rang. 


LOUIS BONHEUR EARNS THE REWARD. 


193 


A quiet-looking man in plain clothes came in. 

“ Sortiges, you will accompany Mademoiselle de Laval, and be in 
every way at her orders. ” 

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet.” 

And he followed her out. 

******* 

The landlord of the principal auberge in the little village of L , 

on the Maux road, stood at his door, smoking and gazing up the roa^ 
towards Paris, when he saw a little black speck — it grew larger rap- 
idly, came nearer, and dashed past him at a headlong speed — a car- 
riage drawn by two horses all in a foam, and a large white dog fol- 
lowing it. 

“Mon Dieu !” cried the worthy Jacques, lifting his hands; “if 
they keep that pace round that sharp turn there will be an accident.” 

Almost as he spoke the carriage reached the sharp turn in the road 
just beyond the village, and the next moment he saw the off fore- 
wheel strike the bank, and the vehicle was thrown over, the horses 
struggling furiously in the traces. 

The aubergiste and half a dozen men ran to assist, but even as they 
reached it one of the occupants of the carriage had got out and 
seized the nearest horse’s head. She was a young girl, but she was 
perfectly cool. 

“Pick up the poor coachman,” she said, with that quiet air of 
command to which the lower class always give obedience in such 
a moment, “and help out monsieur from the carriage.” 

Two men seized the horses and another unfastened the traces ; the 
aubergiste assisted out monsieur. 

“Are you hurt?” Anna-Marie asked, anxiously. 

“Oh no, mademoiselle; I am bruised, and my foot is hurt a bit. 
I cannot walk just a while. Never mind me; go on. Monsieur le 
Comte will overtake you,” he added, in a low voice, “and the man 
may be concealed farther on. The carriage is not harmed, and 
shall follow when Monsieur le Comte comes up.” 

“Time is everything,” said Anna, giving him some loose change; 
“they will take you to the auberge and summon a doctor. See to 
him and the coachman. Farewell. Venez, mon chien.” 

And she walked rapidly away, with Corsare panting still from his 
long run. She was a little bruised by the accident, but otherwise 
unhurt, for her hand had been on the window, and she had held on 
to it. 

It was bitter cold, and the snow lay in drifts on the left side, but 
she heeded neither cold nor the hard rutty road, save a moment’s 
pause every now and then to listen for the clatter of horses’ hoofs. 

Walking fast, sometimes running, she got over two miles in bare- 
ly half an hour, and was still walking on, when Corsare suddenly 
stopped just where the edge of a considerable wood extended to the 
edge of the road. 

“ Ha! what is it, good dog, Corsare?” 

The wolf-hound threw up his shaggy head, snuffing the frosty air 
with a low, fierce growl; then laid his nose to the ground, threw it 

13 


194 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


up again, and at last looked at his mistress, whose ear had just caught 
the distant sound of horses’ hoofs. 

‘‘What is it?” she whispered, as the dog once more snuffed the 
air. “ Go, then,” she said. 

The wolf-hound bounded forward, and plunged into the wood. 
Anna de Laval could feel every wild throb of her heart as she fol- 
lowed him. 


MANUSCRIPT XXXII. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Then I fled — I left Paris, left the faubourg — where I neither 
knew nor heeded — behind me, and gained an open road. I had 
walked as only a man can who is walking for life; and it was six 
o’clock before I dared slacken my pace and pause, to try and guess 
where I was. It was still dark, pitch dark, and freezing hard, but 
I had placed at least nine good English miles between me and Paris, 
I knew, by the pace I had kept and the stillness. 

Oh, that fearful walk ! the horrible terror that was in the darkness, 
in the rustle of the wind among the leafless trees as I passed! In ev- 
erything there was but one voice, one word — Murder — and his face. 

If any man, standing on the very brink of crime, shall chance to 
read this manuscript of a haunted man, let him pause and look be- 
yond the meditated deed; let him not think to escape himself, for it 
is impossible ; let him read this, the story of a murderer, and pause 
while he has time. 

Oh, the hideous punishment of remorse! the awful looking back 
to what can never be again! to recall the deed done! is this the hell 
of which men talk? this the vulture that preyed ever on Prome- 
theus? 

I dared not pause, but pressed on madly; and when at last dawn 
broke, and daylight grew slowly upon me, I could see Paris dimly 
far away ; in another hour I lost even that. 

Once or twice I met country carts and peasants, but I hid myself 
while they passed, when I could, that there might be no trace of me. 

Footsore, weary, and hungry, I came, somewhere near nine o’clock, 
to a village, and there at an auberge I ventured to stop for rest and 
refreshment. Of sleep I had had none the last night; and tired and 
cold and faint as I was, the warm room and breakfast had a painful- 
ly drowsing effect on me ; but I dared not sleep yet. 

It was past nine when I paid my reckoning and once more set 
out. They told me it was the road to Maux, and that there was an- 
other village farther on. I remember — I have too much cause to re- 
member, curse it! — passing a fiacre driving rapidly towards Paris, 
but after that the road was solitary. 

Two miles or so beyond L I came to a wood, a thick and ex- 

tensive wood — more properly, perhaps, a small forest. I paused, 


RETRIBUTION. 


195 


struck by the hope of escape and safety it offered. If I turned aside 
into it, my pursuers — if they were in very truth on my trail— would 
lose it and pass on, naturally thinking that I had gone on to Maux. 
If I could conceal myself there till dark, I might then hope to effect 
my flight in safety. 

I took a flying leap over the snow, lest a footstep in it might give 
a clew, and plunged into the forest, carefully replacing boughs or 
brushwood that I had to move. Thus I made my way for fully 
half a mile, and then I came to a shut-in spot where one of the trees 
was a giant elm, close to which were the remains of a wood fire, the 
embers still warm. 

I wrapped myself in my cloak and sat down, resting against the 
tree, and tried to think, to plan for my safety; but anxiety and fa- 
tigue of mind and body had done their work, and crushed my pow- 
ers now when I most needed them, beneath the weight of heavy ir- 
resistible sleep and the torturing dreams which since that night had 
never left my slumbers. 

When I lost consciousness I know not, or how long I remained I 
know not; but the cold probably numbed me, for hours must have 
passed. 

What roused me and made me spring up and stand listening, too be- 
numbed and chilled, too powerless to move, paralyzed with awful fear ? 

What was it? where was it? the deep bay of a hound from the 
high-road, the sound of cracking underwood. I heard it coming on, 
on, and could not move, not a step, not a finger. I tried to draw my 
pistol, but it fell from my powerless hand. The agony of a lifetime 
was crowded into those few awful moments, and I grew dizzy. 
There was a crash of broken wood, a rush, and it sprung upon me. 

Then I fought with the dog madly, as only a murderer can fight 
for life, as only man can fight in the hideous struggle between man 
and beast — in desperate, silent horror. Great Heaven! it seemed 
hours, yet was but seconds. I saw her dizzily — that foreign child ; 
I heard her voice — her words of stern command. 

“ Down! down! let go, Corsare!” and her grasp was on his collar. 

I staggered back with such a cry of despair as seemed in my own 
ears like the cry of a fallen spirit might have been. 

I faced her, a desperate man, before whom she might well have 
quailed ; but she never flinched. She had picked up my pistol, and 
held it in her left hand — on her guard, I felt. 

She said sternly, pointing to the dog, 

“lam going back to the road. If you stir one step, this dog will 
pull you down, and tear you as he would a wolf. You are warned. 
Corsare, lie down and watch him — watch !” 

She turned and walked quickly away. The wolf-hound lay down 
two yards from me, with his head laid between his paws, and his 
eyes watching my face. 

" I leaned against the tree and folded my arms tightly across my 
breast, stunned, the power even of suffering paralyzed by the dead- 
ness of blank despair. 

I knew that my race was run at last. 


196 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


I covered my eyes to shut out that horrible, watchful, human gaze 
looking out of the dog’s eyes. It might have been minutes, or hours, 
or years that passed — I knew, felt nothing : time itself stood still ; 
but at last— and it seemed years since last night — footsteps came 
over the ground, and a tall, dark man stood before me. His hand 
was laid heavily on my shoulder, his voice spoke, thrilling, numbing 
me with its likeness to Ms: 

“ In the Queen’s name, you are my prisoner !” 

The touch of Guido di Schiara’s hand, the sound of his voice 
roused my fierce hatred of the man, and its power gave strength and 
desperation. Only Anna-Marie was with him. 

“ Tour prisoner? on what charge, and by what right?” I demand- 
ed, with the desperate boldness of despair. 

■ “By right of this warrant,” he answered, sternly, “in virtue of 
which you are now going to London to be tried for the murder of 
Stewart Claverhouse.” 

I made no answer, but with a mad impulse of preservation, threw 
off his hand, and sprung forward to fly — mad, mad! He had his 
hand upon me again in a moment, with a grasp of iron which, from 
its slenderness, would have seemed impossible; there was no escap- 
ing that hold. 

He gave me a sting now beneath whose bitterness I writhed. 

“I would,” he said, in the same deep, stern way, “have demanded 
your parole not to try that again, but that long ago you dishonored 
your name with a lie. I simply warn you that if you move a step 
for escape, I will manacle you like any felon in the galley. Anna, 
lead on to the road.” 

She obeyed him, and we followed— he and I. 

I was beaten— his captive — and I cursed him, by his gods, as I 
walked to the road at his side. 

Standing in the road was a carriage and pair and two riding- 
horses, on one of which sat an Englishman, a detective in plain 
clothes; I was sure ; the other must have been ridden by Schiara. 

“Enter the carriage, monsieur,” he said, opening the door. 

As I obeyed I looked in his face. I have wondered since — it cross- 
ed me vaguely even then — how it was that that man, Ms brother, 
could resist stabbing me where I stood. 

Was I to be alone? if so, I might yet escape. I should have 
known him better. I saw him lift his hand to the cameo-seller, and 
she directly caftie to the door with her dog. 

“Enter; lie down there, ’’she said, touching the front seat, “and 
watch him.” 

The wolf-hound, but for whom I had now been free, leaped light- 
ly in and crouched on the seat, a terrible companion, from whom 
there was no escape. The doors were shut fast, though the blinds 
were up, and Schiara lifted Anna to the box beside the driver; then 
he mounted, and took his position on that side, the English detect- 
ive on the other. “ My escort,” I muttered, with a bitter curse. 

And we started. So for the last time I entered gay Paris, a guard- 
ed felon; I, Casper St. Leger Wolfgang. 


BEFORE LUNCHEON CHAT. 


197 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

BEFORE LUNCHEON CHAT. 

“So the fellow is taken at last,” said the Honorable Laurence 
Cleves, a son of the Earl of Laneton, and now brother-in-law to Tom 
Dacret and he came up to a group of young men and ladies, who, 
with his sister, Lady Maude, and her husband, were guests at his fa- 
ther’s hospitable country-seat. “ So the fellow is taken at last; here 
is the Tunes.” 

“ And,” said another, laughing, “here is Tom just back from town 
to tell us all the news. What ‘ fellow ’ is taken?” 

“Why, just Wolfgang, the villain who robbed the world of its 
greatest sculptor.” 

“ Are you joking?” 

“Is he really taken?” cried the ladies. 

“By Jove! I’m glad. Hanging is too good for the villain!” ex- 
claimed the men. 

“Tom, do tell us, ’’said his wife, “for of course you know more 
than the papers. Is he taken?” 

“Of course, my dear Maude; taken in, or rather near, Paris, 
brought to London, brought up before a magistrate, and committed 
for trial. I was there myself.” 

“ What did he say for himself?” asked Cleves. 

“Pleaded not guilty, but reserved his defence.” 

“Not guilty? what impudence! Why, that Roman cameo-seller 
— the Fiora di Maria, you know — saw the deed. How will he get 
over that?” 

“ My dear fellow, I don’t know. He’s got an Old Bailey attorney 
who will help him, I think, without being over-scrupulous.” 

“Was she there?” asked a young lady. 

“ Certainly, Miss Amphlett; her evidence committed him.” 

“Is she pretty?” 

“The present company excepted,” bowed courtly Tom, “she is, 
without question, the most beautiful girl I have ever seen — as beau- 
tiful in her peculiar style as Mrs. Stewart Claverhouse was in hers.” 

“Ah, poor young thing!” said Lady Maude, with tears in her eyes. 
“It was a most melancholy tragedy.” 

“When will he be tried, and where?” said another of the men. 

“ When? in a week or ten days. Where? at the Central Criminal 
Court. They would never get an impartial jury at Ernescliffe, so he 
is to be tried in London.” 

“Do you know who is retained for the prosecution?” 


198 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


“Yes; for Cavagnac — Claverhouse, I mean— told me. He has 
told his attorney to retain Gus Seymour for his leader.” 

“Leader! Is Seymour within the Bar, then?” 

“Just taken silk. Didn’t you know it?” 

“No; lie’s very young at the Bar.” 

“Ten or eleven years’ standing. The luckiest fellow I know,” 
said Tom Dacre. “He has every reason to be a Q.C. so early. He 
came to the Bar with every advantage.” 

“How so?” t _ 

‘ * He is of good family and some private fortune. He came with 
a ‘tail,’ and a longish one too; and he is very clever, very clever in- 
deed, and lucky. Even here he has his usual luck in holding his 
maiden leader brief in so famous a trial as this will be. It will 
make the man.” 

“ I am so glad,” said Lady Maude Dacre, “ that Wolfgang is taken. 
For one thing, among others, we shall get the Count de Cavagnac — 
I beg his pardon, Guy Claverhouse — among our set again. A most 
fascinating man — he has so much of II Angelo’s wonderful charm.” 

“How odd to call him by an English name,” said Miss Amphlett. 
‘ ‘ I shall always think of him as an Italian, which he is, in fact, ex- 
cept in actual blood. ” 

“ He should take an English wife to unforeignize him,” laughed 
Lady Maude. ‘ ‘ But, hark ! there is the luncheon bell, and mamma 
beckoning us from the window. Tom, I mean to see the trial. ” 

To which Tom, being still in the halo of honeymoonism, answered 
“that he was her dutiful slave,” and the party adjourned to the 
house. 


MANUSCRIPT XXXIII. 

“ I have set my life upon a cast, 

And must abide the hazard of the die.” 

Ten days to my trial — my trial for murder, before all the world ; 
my dishonored name a byword of execration in every mouth, my life 
suspended on the balance of a hair. If the period of suspense had 
been longer I should have gone mad beneath the torture of it. 

My mother came, entreating to see me, but I refused. I would only 
see my attorney; and I told him— well, not what I had done, but 
enough to make him smile and prepare a defence. 

“Trust to me, ’’said Mr. Grainger, “to do my best; only do your 
part. Keep a cool steady front, and face the Court and crowd calm- 
ly. I grant it is a most trying and painful position for a gentleman, 
but still — ” 

Trying, painful ! weak words to what it was. No language can 
describe its suffering and crushing disgrace. To stand there in a 
felon’s dock, to endure the gaze of that crowd, to face those who had 
known me and called me, in ordinary parlance , friend ; worse than 


I HAVE SET MY LIFE UPON A CAST. 


199 


(( 


>v 


all, to know that I was guilty, and that I stood there to see the game 
for my life played out before my eyes. Yet I obeyed the injunction 
to do my part, and faced that crowd calm and collected outwardly ; 
inwardly, who could tell the fire that was consuming me! Was it 
for this that I had satiated my fierce, jealous hate of the man I had 
slain? was it for this hour I had stained my hands in blood, and writ- 
ten murder on my brow? if so, the punishment was heavy indeed. 

Let me tell it collectedly, if I can. 

I looked round, but I felt the red flush cross my face as I saw the 
dense crowd below, and met the gaze of what seemed a thousand 
eyes. For a second my very brain reeled, and everything grew misty 
— only a second, and then again I looked. 

Close below me were my attorney, my counsel, Mr. Edward Gemie- 
son, Q.C., and his junior, Mr Catesby , on the other side I saw, and 
started with a thrill of pain to see, my former school-fellow, Gus Sey- 
mour; and I wondered vaguely if his position pained him. Perhaps 
not. He had liked, more than liked, Stewart, and must feel only bit- 
terness against me. 

Near him I saw two I could not look at without a shiver of dread 
— the dark, stern face of Guido Claverhouse, and at his side the 
cameo-seller, dressed in black, looking what she was — a lady, a pa- 
trician. 

I turned my glance restlessly for another form very different — my 
mother’s, and I thought I saw her closely veiled. 

Then came the empanelling of the jury, but I challenged no one. 
Each moment of delay was sickening torture. I was only thoroughly 
roused by an address which made me start and shudder. 

“ Prisoner at the bar, how say you — guilty, or not guilty?” 

I lifted my head, and looking round, answered distinctly and de- 
liberately, 

“Not guilty. ” 

But even as the words passed my lips I saw that bitter mocking 
smile on Guido di Scliiara’s handsome mouth, and I turned my gaze 
to Seymour, How little, years ago, when we were boys together, had 
either of us dreamed of this ! Did it cross him, too, as he rose to 
open the case ? 

And then I had to listen to those clear sonorous tones telling the 
story of my crime. 

He went back to the very beginning, assigning — and I knew Cav- 
agnac had told him — the true motives that had driven me on. I 
learned that the Provengale, ever quiet, languid, courteous, had been 
from first to last, with that guileful Italian, my evil genius; that both 
had been suspicious, and that she had been under his orders; that 
she had seen the man Gavannier, or rather Louis Bonheur, buy the 
revolver, and seen him subsequently sell it to me; that from that 
time hers and the count’s suspicions had taken a darker form; and 
that from the day of Stewart’s marriage I had been under surveil- 
lance, the girl watching me closely, as her wandering life gave her 

better opportunity of doing; that the night I went to D she was 

in the same train, and followed me — saw me to the small inn where 


200 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


I hid rather than lodged, under the name of William Lang, and 
scarcely lost sight of me till that night. 

I would fain have shut my ears, my senses, to that recital. There 
was a rushing sound in my head for a minute, but again the dis- 
tinct voice recalled me to myself. The Proven^ale was in the wit- 
ness-box. How lovely, oh, how beautiful she was, but how ill and 
weary she looked. 

“ Wliat is your name?” asked Seymour. 

“Anna-Marie de Laval, monsieur.” 

The same soft musical tones and delicate plaintive accent as of 
yore ; but she stood there quiet, unmoved, steadfast. I felt that not 
even Edward Gemieson would shake her one inch. 

“ Your employment?” 

“A Roman cameo-seller.” 

Gemieson rose fussily, addressing the Court. 

“My lord, this witness is a foreigner, and I must ask that an in- 
terpreter — ” 

‘ ‘ Stay, Mr. Gemieson, ” said the judge, mildly. “ Witness, can you 
speak English?” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“ How long have you been in England?” 

“I came to London nearly two years ago, my lord — early in March, 
able then to understand a little English. I was here six months, for 
I only went abroad again in the autumn.” 

“Very well. I think, Mr, Gemieson, an interpreter is unneces- 
sary.” 

He bowed and sat down. Seymour went on: 

“You came to England in March, two years ago, then?” 

“Yes, monsieur; the latter end.” 

“ Did you know Mr. Claverhouse, then going by the name of Count 
de Cavagnac?” 

“Yes.” 

‘‘Were you ever in any way employed by him?” 

“ I was; first, I think, in May, or thereabouts. I was employed to 
find out a man for whom the count was searching — one Louis Bon- 
heur.” 

“And were you successful?” 

“I was. I saw him the night of that violent thunder-storm, the 
5th of June, and followed him. I saw him enter a gunsmith’s shop 
in the Strand. His name was Stephen Hurne, and through the win- 
dow 1 saw him buy a small pocket-revolver.” 

“Did you ever see the revolver again?” 

“Yes; about a month afterwards.” 

“Under what circumstances?” 

“It was,” she answered, “one night that I had been at one of the 
theatres, and I saw two men come out of ’s.” 

“ The gambling-liouse?” 

“Yes. I knew them both : one was Louis Bonheur, the other was 
Monsieur Wolfgang; they went on to the Quadrant, and then turned 
just under that archway, with the lamplight full on them. I crouched 


201 


44 1 HAVE SET MY LIFE UPON A CAST.” 

in the shadow close by, and heard and saw plainly. Bonheur showed 
the revolver, and wanted Monsieur Wolfgang to buy it. He would 
not at first, but suddenly changed. ‘Yes, I’ll buy it,’ he said; ‘it 
might be useful some way or another; only it’s got a mark — letters 
on it.’ Bonheur said it was nothing, and Monsieur Wolfgang took 
it and paid two pounds, remarking, ‘ The only gold I have about me, 
and they happen to be Australian sovereigns.’ They parted, and 
Monsieur Wolfgang went away with the revolver.” 

“Went away with the revolver?” repeated Seymour; “now, 
Mademoiselle de Laval, was that the only time the count employed 
you?” 

“ No, monsieur; by his orders I watched Monsieur Wolfgang — 
from the day of the maestro’s” — for a second her voice faltered, 
then she went on firmly — “from the day of Mr. Stewart Claver- 
house’s marriage, but nothing came of it particularly until after his 
return to London, after he and his wife left town for Ernescliffe, 
where the count joined them.” 

“ Well, did anything come of it then?” 

“Yes; the evening of the 12th of August the prisoner” (I started; 
it was the first time she had called me so) “left his house and went 

down to D . I heard him take his ticket, and went down in the 

same train, following him when he left D station. He took up 

his residence in a small inn, the ‘ Anchor,’ kept by one Rook; by day 
he remained there, but at night he walked out into Ernescliffe Bark, 
and prowled about sometimes near the Hall.” 

“ How long did this go on?” 

“Eight days, monsieur. The night of the 20th I followed him into 
Ernescliffe Park, till he sat down under a tree and lit a cigar. I 
left him there, and went down on to the beach close by to refresh 
myself, for I had had little sleep that week, and none at all for forty- 
eight hours. I sat down behind some rock on the beach, with my 
dog by me, and, overcome with weariness, fell asleep.” 

Again she paused; I knew what agony she was enduring, but not 
such as I suffered. 

“What awoke you?” asked Seymour. 

“ Monsieur, the voice of the maestro, answered by that of Monsieur 
Wolfgang. Instantly fearing, ready for the worst, I rose, and stood 
where I could see as well as hear. At last Monsieur Wolfgang, after 
upbraiding him, said furiously, ‘ You believe in a God; go, then, tell 
him this night how Casper Yon Wolfgang dares and defies him!’ and 
that second, before even my hound could move, he drew a revolver 
and shot the maestro. I sprung forward and caught him as he fell; 
my dog seized Monsieur Wolfgang, but he stunned him with the 
weapon, hurled it at me, and fled.” 

Seymour gave her a moment, seeing, as I did, that her lip was quiv- 
ering; then resumed : 

“It was night, and stormy; how, then, could you see who shot the 
deceased?” 

“ The moon was shining, and I distinctly saw the man’s face.” 

“ Now, look round, and say, on your oath, if you see it anywhere.” 


202 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Oh, that grim mockery! Anna de Laval had never once looked 
even towards the dock; but now, when there was dead silence, when 
I felt my heart beat as if every throb were its last, she turned, fixed 
her stern, melancholy eyes on mine, and half lifting her slight hand, 
said, with a look and tone that haunts me now with its horror, 

“ That is the man/’ 

I folded my arms tightly, striving to stifle my heart, striving to 
endure her steadfast gaze ; but my eyes sunk — I could not bear it. 

The judge addressed her: 

“ Witness, think well on the grave responsibility of your position. 
Are you positive?” 

4 ‘My lord, I am positive that the prisoner is the man I saw mur- 
der Stewart Claverhouse.” 

There was a sensation, an indescribable murmur, instantly checked 
by the usher, and Seymour resumed : 

“ What became of the revolver which the prisoner hurled at you?” 

“When Monsieur de Cavagnac and others came to the maestro’s 
assistance, I picked it up.” 

“You have stated that it had a mark — letters; what were they?” 

“ Three words engraved on one of the barrels, * Yive la Commune.’ 
Bonheur is, or was then, a Communist.” 

“Should you know it again?” 

“ Certainly, monsieur.” I fancied Anna looked surprised. 

“Understand me,” said the counsel, impressively, “and remember 
how much depends on your answers. Can you swear to the weapon 
at this distance of time?” 

“I can.” 

“ After you picked it up, what did you do with it?” 

“It was in my hand till after the death of Mr. Stewart Claver- 
house, then I examined it closely, and delivered it over to the count, 
who has it still, I believe.” 

Seymour took something from his client; I saw them — three 
small revolvers, to all appearance fac-similes. 

“Now, tell me which of these is the revolver that you picked up 
and delivered to the Count de Cavagnac?” 

Would she fail? if so— no; she stooped slightly and laid her hand 
on the middle one, taking it from him. 

“This is the revolver.” 

“Are you sure? by what do you know it from these of the same 
maker, which are just like it?” 

‘ ‘ By several small things. One of the barrels is graven with the 
words ‘Yive la Commune,’ and this barrel is a shade smaller in the 
bore than the other two : the end of the stock, or but-end, which- 
ever it is called, is slightly bruised, probably by the violence with 
which it struck the rock when flung at me.” 

“ That will do.” 

The revolver was handed up to the court, and I looked anxiously 
down at my attorney, Grainger. He smiled scornfully, as if to say, 
“Nothing at all; I’ll blow all this to the winds.” 

But I took no hope; even Gemieson could not browbeat Anna- 


203 


“i HAVE SET MY LIFE UPON A CAST.’ 5 

Marie. He now rose to cross-examine her, and from his questions 
I began to see at least part of Grainger’s game of defence. 

“You are, or were, a cameo-seller, you said?” 

“I was.’* 

“That is, Ostensibly,” added Gemieson with a sneer; “but that 
was not your only means of living?” 

“Monsieur, I do not see what my means of living has to do with 
the question,” said Anna, coolly. 

‘ ‘ I dare say ; a foreigner is not likely to (lo so, ” said the counsel, 
blandly; “ but I insist on an answer to my question.” 

“You asked none, Monsieur l’Avocat. You made a remark.” 

“ I ask you whether you lived merely by selling cameos?” said he, 
slightly raising his never very gentle voice. “You were a model, 
were you not, to artists and sculptors?” 

I saw her proud lip curl. She saw his drift plainly, though she 
answered quietly, 

“I was not a professional model. I sat only to the first artists, 
and never to any sculptor but II Angelo— pardon, Stewart Claver- 
house. ” 

“Indeed; you were particular in your favors. Now, you stated 
that you knew the Count de Cavagnac. How long was it since you 
first met him?” 

“Two years next March.” 

“What is your age?” 

Seymour looked up, and seemed half amused, half inclined to 
object to such irrelevant questions, but he did not; and Anna an- 
swered, 

“lam not yet seventeen ; I was then just fifteen.” 

“You were very intimate with Monsieur de Cavagnac, according 
to your own showing, young as you were,” said he, with another 
broad sneer. 

I saw Guido di Schiara lift his handsome face, with a dark frown 
and fierce gleam in the dark eyes, then set his teeth hard and fold 
his arms, with such a face as a man only wears when he is forced 
to sit and hear the woman he loves insulted. 

Over Anna’s beautiful face a flush passed, leaving it colorless as 
before ; but though there was no other outward sign, I knew how 
her proud, sensitive womanhood writhed. 

She looked her questioner in the face, and answered, 

“I was not ‘very intimate’ with the count. There could be no 
intimacy between a man of his position and a cameo-seller. He 
simply employed me as a detective, and paid me, as he paid any 
other agent.” 

“ Hum; that will do for the present.” 

She left the witness-box. Who was coming next? 

That little French Republican from whom I had so madly bought 
a marked weapon — Louis Bonheur. 

What was his evidence? A link, a strong link. He swore posi- 
tively that he had sold a revolver to me, that the one now shown 
him was the one, and that I — the prisoner — was the man who bought 


204 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


It, paying two Australian sovereigns. Gemieson could not shake 
him. 

They were determined to prove that fatal revolver into my hands 
and out of it. Seymour called the count, and every eye turned on 
him. No wonder. He was a noble, handsome man — more, he was 
a most striking and distinguished-looking man. 

“I shall not trouble you much. What is your name?” began 
Seymour. 

“Guido Egmont Claverhouse, better known as Count de Cav- 
agnac. ” 

I shivered at his voice, so like — oh, so like ! his murdered brother’s. 

“Permit me, then, to call you so. Look at these three revolvers. 
Were ever one or more of them in your possession?” 

“Yes; this one.” He took it up. “On the night of the 20th 
August in question, as I was lifting my brother Stewart from the 
ground, I saw Anna de Laval pick it up, and she had it in her hand 
till after his death, then she gave it to me. ‘Take it, monsieur,’ 
were her words; ‘it is the marked revolver which I saw Monsieur 
Wolfgang buy of Bonheur.’ Ever since I have had this weapon in 
my possession.” 

“That will do. Mr. Gemieson, do you cross-examine?” 

He declined. “He would not trouble the court yet,” to my sur- 
prise. 

The prosecution was ended. I knew, at least, the worst they had 
to say. 

Edward Gemieson rose up, tall, burly, important, and spoke, elo- 
quently, certainly, but not as Gus Seymour had spoken. 

I think I was the person in that court most astonished at the de- 
fence. It was short, after all. 

He said that his client had never bought, never even seen, the 
revolver then in court, and that at the very time it was asserted that 
he was at Ernescliffe he was with his mother in town, as he should 
prove. His client had never left London till the day after the mur- 
der of the unfortunate sculptor, and he had then gone to D 

under the name of William Lang, in order to meet and get rid of a 
woman who had been his mistress some years before. He had re- 
turned to town, when it reached him that he was charged with a 
crime of which he knew nothing, and by his mother’s advice he had 
gone abroad for a time — unwisely, perhaps, but not unnaturally. 
As to the motive assigned, he really wondered that his learned friend 
had named anything so absurd. The accused and Stewart Claver- 
house had always been most friendly. Then he went on cautiously, 
but plainly, to charge the witnesses with at least “a strong mis- 
take ” as to identity and the facts stated. In fine, what he meant, 
and what the court must have understood, was, that I was the victim 
of a plot, the motives for which were plain. Both Egmont Claver- 
house and Anna de Laval hated the accused, the latter because he, 
the accused, had once made her understand that he perfectly under- 
stood the relations with the count, as he should prove. “And,” he 
concluded/ 4 is a man in the position of the accused — a man of birth 


“ I HAVE SET MY LIFE UPON A CAST.” 205 

and wealth, an English gentleman ! — is his life to he sworn away by 
a common Roman cameo-seller, an artists’ model? and we all know 
what they are ; could they rely on the oath of such a girl, to whom 
it was nothing to perjure herself for the sake of her hatred or her 
lover?” 

He said everything, in fact, to discredit her evidence; he only just 
stopped short of saying, in plain words, that Anna — Anna, who had 
so bitterly resented my shameful insult — was nothing better than 
the mistress of Guido Claverhouse. 

I had sunk low, indeed, to take away a girl’s name, and that a 
stranger, a foreigner. If they had told me this ! but I started ; I had 
almost spoken out “ to spare her,” when I saw him actually put her 
again into the witness-box; what for but to make her own pure lips 
condemn her! How would she bear it? She stood erect, proud, 
calm, that grand air of dignity I knew so well, patrician in every 
line of her stately form and classic half-Italian face. 

“You have asserted that you went to D on the 12 th of August; 

now, at this distance of time how can you swear to a date?” 

“I have every reason to remember it, even if I had not noted it 
down.” 

“You say you followed a man whom you assert to be the prisoner; 
are you sure that it wasn’t the Count de Cavagnac you followed to 
Ernescliffe?” 

“ Quite sure, monsieur,” she said, coolly. 

“But you were there with him at the Hall after the death of Mr. 
Claverhouse?” 

“Monsieur mistakes,” she said, sarcastically. “I was not there 
with the count, but with the signora, Mrs. Claverhouse; and when 
she died I left.” 

The answer was more than he meant. Mrs. Claverhouse was not 
likely to be intimate with a girl of questionable character. He 
passed on. 

“Now answer on your oath — Did you not dislike the prisoner?” 

“Yes, monsieur.” 

“Ah, I thought so,” said he, complacently. “You hated him be- 
cause he told you that he knew how you stood regarding the count ; 
insulted you, shall I say?” 

“The prisoner did insult me” — and I was confounded by her 
perfect calmness and control — “but not as you insinuate; the count’s 
name was not even alluded to or meant. The prisoner tried to force 
from me something which I refused to tell; he threatened law; I 
laughed at his threats, and thefa he said, ‘ Do you think I don’t know 
on whose protection you rely?’ His insult alluded to the maestro.” 

“So you say,” remarked Gemieson; “other people may think 
otherwise.” 

Then he tried to shake her evidence, striving to make out that she 
had obtained the revolver from Bonlieur, and suborned his evidence; 
but it was more than useless, and he let her go. 

Next he called the man Rook and his wife, of the “Anchor” in 
D , who both deposed that I had never come there till the 21st 


206 


BAPTIZED WITH A CUKSE. 


of August, and had only remained a day ; and then he called a wom- 
an whom 1 recognized as my mother’s maid. She swore positively 
that on the 20th of August I was in the town-house. Seymour cross- 
examined all three, but they were firm. He sat down. 

n And now,” said Gemieson, rising, “I call Mrs. St. Leger Wolf- 
gang.” 

I started violently and irresistibly, and bent forward as my moth- 
er came forward; but I saw Cavagnac whisper to Seymour, and as 
the clerk approached her to administer the oath, the latter rose. 

“My lord, I object; this lady is an atheist, and cannot, therefore, 
be sworn.” 

A sensation again; it seemed to strike horror into the crowd. 
Hypocrites! were they better than us? I trembled, but my mother 
was unmoved. She turned, and said distinctly, as she threw up her 
veil, 

4 4 My lord, the learned counsel is misinformed. I am not an atheist, 
and I desire to be put upon my oath.” 

The judge bent his head, Seymour sat down; but as my mother 
was sworn, I saw that old bitter, mocking smile on Cavagnac’s lips 
and on Anna’s. 

I knew, as they did, the true value of her declaration; but if it 
saved me, what cared I? 

She, too, swore positively that I was in town with her on the 20th 
of August, and that that revolver had never been in my possession. 

Seymour did not cross-examine, but rose at once to make his reply. 

Then all his eloquence was poured out in a speech which pulled 
down the defence and charges against his witnesses as easily as a 
child destroys a house of bricks. He ridiculed the idea that Anna- 
Marie de Laval could have been mistaken as to the man she saw 
murder the sculptor, and stigmatized as shameful and disgraceful 
the attempt to damn the reputation of a young girl, for whom it 
was, perhaps, enough to say that she had been the friend and confi- 
dante of the late Mrs. Claverhouse. 

Then the judge summed up shortly and concisely, and the jury 
retired. 

There was a hush. I leaned forward, not sick or dizzy, not dead- 
ened. I have heard people talk of their heart standing still at some 
trifle, but they knew not what that is. My heart stood still now ; it 
was paralyzed. I saw nothing, felt nothing, but the awful sense of 
horror. Did time pass? Were those faces below me, or demons? 
But when they came back, and I lifted my head, it seemed years ago 
that they had left. ~ I 

44 How say you, gentlemen of the jury, guilty or not guilty?” 

Was not that one moment of silence that followed punishment 
enough in itself for my crime? 

“Guilty!” 

******* 

Was it all a hideous dream from which I should awake? the faces 
below seemed so distant and small. Was that a voice that seemed 
so far off? Who had they tried for his life? Who was that strange 


“we IIUNG our harps on a willow-tree.” 207 


old man with the black cap on condemning to be hanged by the 
neck till he was dead? 

Then distinctly rousing to the knowledge of the truth, I heard the 
words — 

“ And may God have mercy on your soul.” 

God ! if there was a God, I had defied him ! if I had a soul, I had 
played it against hell — and lost. 

Body and soul lost forever. % 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ We hung our harps on a willow-tree.” 

There was a dense crowd outside the court ; so dense that most 
of the carriages which had brought their titled owners could not 
get near it. Two or three had, and among these that of Lady Maude 
Dacre ; and out of the window looked that lady’s pretty face, as she 
spoke to her husband, who stood by the door waiting till the car- 
riage could move on. 

“Cruel, shameful,” she was saying, “to try and blast that girl’s 
name, a young thing of sixteen or seventeen; a lady, too, Nina’s 
friend. She told me her sad story, and I for one shall show what I 
think.” 

“ So shall I,” said Dacre, quietly; “ and there is Claverhouse with 
her on his arm. Peste, they are recognized and cheered. How 
vexing for them! he’ll never get her to his carriage.” 

“He is nearer ours.” She leaned out as Guido and his young 
companion approached, and said out loud, 

“Mr. Claverhouse, you will never get a lady through this; put 
Mademoiselle de Laval into my carriage, and take my husband into 
yours. ” 

“Merci, mille fois, madame. Anna, Lady Maude will kindly put 
you down in Square. You will go!” 

“ If monsieur pleases; if I do not intrude on Madame Dacre.” 

“ No, no; of course not. Open the door, count.” 

He handed Anna-Marie in, and then lifted Lady Maude’s hand to 
his lips, and said, in a low voice, so like Stewart’s that it might have 
almost been the dead she heard, 

“I understand, and shall never forget your kindness in thus shel- 
tering with your name and rank a young girl who to-day has no 
protection from the insult but her purity and gentle blood ; to-mor- 
row my name will protect her for life.” 

“Ah, your name.” 

“ To-morrow will see Anna de Laval my wife,” he answered; and 
bending low, walked away with Dacre, while the carriage moved 
on. 

When it drove up to the well-known house that had been the great 
sculptor’s, Guido was already there awaiting them, and handed out 


208 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


the Proven^ale, who, with a grateful 4 ‘Adieu, madame,” ascended 
the steps; but Lady Maude detained Guido. 

“I want to speak to you/’ she said, “only you must forgive me. 
To-morrow is your wedding — ” 

“Pardon,” he said, with a grave sadness that touched her; “it is 
a marriage; there will be no wedding for us.” 

“Forgive mC my mistake; it will be very quiet!” 

“Very quiet, very private; only Doctor John, who gives Anna 
away, and Luigi Padella. You remember him? It could not be 
otherwise;” he paused a second, and then added, “ our betrothal was 
at his death.” 

Maude Dacre could not answer for a moment. 

“I understand you, count; but is it wise to be so almost secret, 
after what has been said about her to-day in a public court? You 
are a man of the world, and know how very light a breath will harm ] 
a woman, especially one so peculiarly placed as Anna de Laval; in 
after-years, you know, people might shrug their shoulders, even at 
Mrs. Claverhouse of Ernescliffe, and whisper about her former life 
and private marriage. Let me fetch her this evening from her lodg- 
ings, and take her with Tom and myself to the church.” 

‘ ‘ Lady Maude, you are a true-hearted, noble woman ? and strong 
as was the man’s self-control, his delicate lip quivered and his deep 
soft tones faltered. “ I accept your kindness ; I shall never forget it.” j 

“ This evening, then; where are her apartments?” 

“It is I who am in my old place in B Street. She is here . 

with my uncle.” 

“ Then perhaps I had better call for her in the morning. At what 7 
hour?” 

“Nine o’clock, Lady Maude.” It was all he could answer; and 
bending over her hand, he turned and entered the house. 

Luigi met him in the hall. 

“At what hour to-morrow will the signor leave town?” 

“At twelve, amico; you are glad to revisit our bell’ Italia?” 

“ Si, signor, now that the maladetto is condemned. Oh, signor 
mio; but that will not bring us back our dead!” he said, with a 
burst of grief. 

“Hush, hush! for God’s sake,” said Guido, hurriedly. “I dare 
not look back or think; it is too much agony.” 

And he passed quickly on to the library, where Doctor John and 
Anna-Marie awaited him. 

Corsare jumped joyfully upon him, but with a caress he put him 
down, and turned to tell them what had passed. 

“ Maude Dacre,” said the old man, after listening, “ is a true, pure ; 
woman, and defends a sister from shameful slander. Anna has told ! 
me all; it was worthy of Casper Yon Wolfgang. But after to-mor- ; 
row she is safe. You will know how to protect your wife.” 

“ I shall, indeed,” he answered. “My wife, my only love!” and 
he clasped her to his breast, as he had not done since the night his ; 
brother had given her to his love and care. 

* ***** * 


209 


<{ ALL was ended now.” 

It was no wedding; there were no favors or rich raiment, no white 
dresses and veils, no guests and feasting; it was a marriage, holy in- 
deed, for love was there, but sad. “ How can we sing the Lord’s 
song in a strange land?” the Psalmist touchingly sings of the exiles; 
and sorrow had stricken these two very heavily, with a shadow that 
would last their lives. But it was a holy marriage, sanctified by a 
love made holy by such affliction as falls on few, hallowed by the 
spirit of the dead. 

Yet not dead, but sleeping; for Art is holy, and the great die not, 
neither in heaven, neither on earth. 


MANUSCRIPT XXXIY. 

“All was ended now— the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow.” 

Am I alone? ami a felon, condemned to death for murder? Will 
they hang me in three weeks? Only twenty-one days between me 
and deatl}! How can I die — how can I die with that awful load of 
guilt upon my head? 

Alone ! Do I crouch in a corner, covering my eyes with my mana- 
cled hands, because I am not alone ; because the narrow cell is crowd- 
ed with hideous phantoms ; because each ghastly form has my face ; 
because there is blood on the bare walls, on the stone floor? Alone! 
when it is lying there in the moonlight, a murdered corpse ; when I 
hear the moaning ocean and that foreign child’s never - forgotten 
cry; when I see Nina’s dead face and white hair, and remember 
what she was, and the ruin my hand has made? 

Does it seem a dream, that long, long ago? Can it be true that I 
was ever young and innocent and free? Is this chained convict, 
this haggard, gray-haired, haunted man, myself , or some hideous de- 
mon? Where is gay, handsome St. Leger Wolfgang? Do I look 
forward to death with such agonized horror and terror of despair 
as can only be known to such as I am, for whom there is no hope, 
for whom there is nothing but this earth — and this earth lost? 

Oh that I could believe! Oh that I had one grain of that Roman 
girl’s simple faith to light me out of this darkness of doubt and vain 
longing, this hell of myself! 

I am going mad with sin and misery and despair. Oh, for life, 
only life! Will nothing save it? it is all I have, all I have, and they 
will take it. 

******* 

Give me paper, pens; let me write; and oh, if in years to come 
any who are young and innocent read my story, let them remember 
that I, too, was once innocent, and throw one ray of pity into the 
execration they heap upon the name of Casper Von Wolfgang — ay, 
even though he was an atheist and a murderer. 

******* 

14 


210 


BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


She came — Georgine, my mother. Was she changed, as I was? 
was that wrinkled, haggard woman the once superb Georgine Yon 
Wolfgang? was it my work, too, or her own? 

“ Casper, my son; oh, my son!” 

I recoiled with a cry, putting out my chained hands. 

“Don’t touch me, mother! there is blood between us — blood and 
misery and awful sin. Looking back in years to come, forbear to 
curse the son who has disgraced you, for you have made me what I 
am. Ay, reproach me bitterly for the word, if you will— it is true. 
You who taught my child-lips to scoff and sneer at all which men 
call holy, and shut out all that was good and gentle; you who put 
another devil into me, as if that were needed, and urged me on to re- 
venge, when you should have let me weep away my sin upon your 
heart. O mother! O mother! if years ago you had taught me dif- 
ferently, I should not have stood here now, a murderer, doomed to 
death, without a future, without hope, without a God. Oh that I 
had died when I was born! I had never then been damned, body 
and soul.” 

“ Soul!” she broke out, “ what is it? what is a Deity? We have 
lived in atheism; die in it: at least, trouble ends in the grave. Sin! 
who calls it so? Why reproach yourself with crime? there is no 
God, no responsibility. What law but man’s makes it sin to take 
life? Was I perjured to swear as I did? No.” 

“Mother, mother! if, after all, he was right. If I had listened to 
him — ” 

“He, Casper? he was a dreamer!” 

“ Wiser in his dreams than we are in our hard philosophy,” I said, 
hiding my face. “No more, no more of him. I cannot bear the 
torture. ” 

She stood looking at me, her breast heaving, her fingers locked. 

“Mother, what will become of you when — when I am gone?” 

‘ ‘ I shall go forth alone and desolate, to hide my shame in another 
land,” she answered; “ to die as I have lived, free from the enslav- 
ing cant of priests and school-men. ” 

There was a long silence, which she broke at last, as if it tried 
her. 

“Did you believe the charge against that thrice-accursed Pro ven- 
ule?” 

I started. 

“No; she was — she is pure, at least.” 

“Was she?” she sneered. “He has married her.” 

“Married her?” 

“Ay; Guido Claverhouse has married Anna-Marie de Laval, the 
sometime cameo-seller, and taken her to Italy for two or three years. 
Dr. John Fantony went also.” She rose, and moved a step. “My 
time is ended. I must come again. You will see me?” 

“No; leave me. I am a felon.” 

She drew her mantle about her, and paused. 

“ Must we part so? I, who bore you? Can even blood wash out 
my motherhood?” 


211 


“all was ended now.” 

Her voice trembled — her voice, and I looked up startled. She 
stretched out her arms. 

“Casper, my son! in shame and guilt and blood, still my son, my 
son!” 

I fell at her feet, and darkness closed over me. The last thing I 
heard was her passionate weeping and the clank of my heavy chains 
on the stones. 

******* 

I was alone again, but I turned my face to the hard wall, to shut 
out the day and the hum of life without those prison walls. 

I heard the cell door open and the jailer’s voice asking if I would 
see the chaplain; but I refused fiercely, as I had done before. “I 
wanted no priests; I had lived and would die without them.” 

The door shut fast; yet after a while I felt that I was not alone, 
and, lifting my head, sprung up with a burning brow of shame. 

I knew that tall figure, that grand benevolent face and steady 
dark eye— not the jail chaplain, but Dr. Harrington. 

“You here!” I gasped; “you?” 

“ The chaplain is ill,” he answered, in his old quiet, gentle way, 
as he sat deliberately down. “I am doing duty for him.” 

“ Leave me, Dr. Harrington; I want no priest. Why do you come 
to me , a felon, a manslayer!” 

“ The Son of God,” he answered, quietly, “ came to heal those that 
are sick, not those that are whole. You say you do not want a 
priest. My son, my friend, you need a God and a future.” 

Friend! son! Was he sneering? he, the upright man, call a felon 
friend? mock me with a future? Yesterday I should have laughed 
him to scorn, even in my misery ; but that last scene with my moth- 
er had softened me. More than all, in his words, in the almost grand 
pity of his gray eyes, there was an echo, a shadow of the one who 
was dead ; as if the halo of the sculptor’s spirit looked on me, filled 
the narrow cell, and brought back strangely and dreamily his beam 
tiful soul-lit face, his wondrous voice, his look, his every word, not 
with torturing agony, as of late, but as it used to be long ago, sooth- 
ing and calm. Was it to be so, after all? was the mystic influence 
that in his lifetime had charmed and would have lifted me up, tq 
reach me still, even beyond the grave? was he to touch me, his mur- 
derer, as I would not be touched in life? Dead ! Did such as he die? 
Is there something that lives still? Was I, on the grave’s brink, be- 
ginning at last feebly, as one yet groping, to comprehend the secret 
of his answer, and his strange influence in life and ip death? Was it 
the wondrous power of his soul? 

“ Teach me what it is — this immortality in which he believed; this 
mighty God in whom he trusted.” 

I sat down bodily at this man’s feet, looking physically in his 
countenance, and hearing his voice ; but something within me was 
at the sculptor’s feet. My spirit — let me say it now — my soul saw 
his deep, steadfast eyes, my soul heard the music of his voice, not 
afar off, but within my very heart, my better angel. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 


212 


- BAPTIZED WITH A CURSE. 


Is that the hum and murmur of a vast multitude, gathering ah 
ready to witness the sight — my execution? Do I hear it? Does the 
pen tremble in my hand, and my face blanch in the moonlight? It 
is trembling now, but I lay it on the open Book of God at my side; 
and then, slowly growing upon me, I feel, as I used to feel it years 
ago, the holy presence of my better angel. 

Will the all-just, all-merciful God hear me, even me, at this elev- 
enth hour? I know not; I have dared to believe, dared to hope hum- 
bly for pardon, dared to bow myself before the Almighty. 

I hear them knocking outside the prison, but it cannot move me. 
I am past that now, for my life is forfeited, and my sands are run 
out. Hush! the bell is tolling, they are coming: the crowd without 
are thirsting for the sight. Well, so be it. Dr. Harrington stands 
there waiting to receive this manuscript, to do with as he deems best. 
Perhaps, if any should read this sorrowful story it may serve to warn 
them off the awful rocks upon which I wrecked my life; and let 
them — if they can — pray for one whose only hope is in God’s mercy, 
whose only dirge is the hoarse murmur of a blood-thirsty multitude.- 
Ms requiem was the eternal music of the deep-rolling ocean. 


THE END. 


BEN-HUR: A TALE OF THE CHRIST 


By Lew. Wallace. New Edition, pp. 552. 16mo, 

" Cloth, $1 50. 

Anything so startling, new, and distinctive as the leading feature of this 
romance does not often appear in works of fiction. . . . Some of Mr. Wal- 
lace’s writing is remarkable for its pathetic eloquence. The scenes de- 
scribed in the New Testament are rewritten with the power and skill of 
an accomplished master of style. — iV. Y Times. 

Its real basis is a description of the life of the Jews and Romans at the 
beginning of the Christian era, and this is both forcible and brilliant. . . . 
We are carried through a surprising variety of scenes; we witness a sea- 
fight, a chariot-race, the internal economy of a Roman galley, domestic in- 
teriors at Antioch, at Jerusalem, and among the tribes of the desert; pal- 
aces, prisons, the haunts of dissipated Roman youth, the houses of pious 
families of Israel. There is plenty of exciting incident; everything is 
animated, vivid, and glowing. — AT. Y. Tribune. 

From the opening of the volume to the very close the reader’s interest 
will be kept at the highest pitch, and the novel will be pronounced by all 
one of the greatest novels of the day. — Boston Post. 

It is full of poetic beauty, as though born of an Eastern sage, and there 
is sufficient of Oriental customs, geography, nomenclature, etc., to greatly 
strengthen the semblance. — Boston Commonwealth. 

“Ben-Hur” is interesting, and its characterization is fine and strong. 
Meanwhile it evinces careful study of the period in which the scene is laid, 
and will help those who read it with reasonable attention to realize the 
nature and conditions of Hebrew life in Jerusalem and Roman life at 
Antioch at the time of our Saviour’s advent. — Examiner , N. Y. 

It is really Scripture history of Christ’s time clothed gracefully and 
delicately in the flowing and loose drapery of modern fiction. . . . Few late 
works of fiction excel it in genuine ability and interest. — N. Y. Graphic. 

One of the most remarkable and delightful books. It is as real and 
warm as life itself, and as attractive as the grandest and most heroic 
chapters of history. — Indianapolis Journal. 

The book is one of unquestionable power, and wilL be read with un- 
wonted interest by many readers who are weary of the conventional novel 
and romance. — Boston Journal. 


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CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON’S NOVELS 


EAST ANGELS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

ANNE. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 

FOR THE MAJOR. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

CASTLE NOWHERE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. (A New 

Edition .) 

RODMAN THE KEEPER. Southern Sketches. 16mo, 
Cloth, $1 00. {A New Editiori.) 

There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson’ s writing which 
invests all her characters with lovable qualities. — Jewish Advocate, N. Y. 

Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting mag- 
azine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the delineation of 
her heroines no less than in the suggestive pictures of local life. — Jewish 
Messenger, N. Y. 

Constance Fenimore Woolson may easily become the novelist laureate. 
— Boston Globe. 

Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, and 
conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development of a 
story is very remarkable. — London Life. 

Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox nov- 
elist, but strikes a new and richly loaded vein which, so far, is all her 
own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sensation, 
and we put down the book with a sigh to think our pleasant task of read- 
ing it is finished. The author’s lines must have fallen to her in very 
pleasant places ; or she has, perhaps, within herself the wealth of woman- 
ly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all she writes. Such books 
as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of the day — a quality sadly 
wanting in novels of the time. — Whitehall Review, London. 


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THE BREAD-WINNERS 

A Social Study. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 


One of the strongest and most striking stories of the last ten years. . . . 
The work of a very clever man ; it is told with many lively strokes of hu- 
mor ; it sparkles with epigram ; it is brilliant with wit. . . . The chief 
characters in it are actually alive ; they are really flesh and blood ; they 
are at once true and new ; and they are emphatically and aggressively 
American. The anonymous author has a Arm grip on American character. 
He has seen, and he has succeeded in making us see, facts and phases of 
American life which no one has put into a book before. . . . Interesting, 
earnest, sincere ; fine in its performance, and finer still in its promise. — 
Saturday Review , London. 

A worthy contribution to that American novel-literature which is at the 
present day, on the whole, ahead of our own . — Pall Mall Gazette , London. 

Praise, and unstinted praise, should be given to “ The Bread-Winners.” 
— N. Y. Times. 

It is a novel with a plot, rounded and distinct, upon which every episode 
has a direct bearing. . . . The book is one to stand nobly the test of im- 
mediate re-reading. — Critic, N. Y. 

It is a truly remarkable book. — N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

As a vigorous, virile, well-told American story, it is long since we have 
had anything as good as “ The Bread-Winners .” — Philadelphia Bulletin. 

Every page of the book shows the practised hand of a writer to whom 
long use has made exact literary expression as easy and spontaneous as 
the conversation of some of those gifted talkers who are at once the 
delight and the envy of their associates. ... We might mention many 
scenes which seem to us particularly strong, but if we began such a 
catalogue we should not know where to stop. — N. Y. Tribune. 

Within comparatively few pages a story which, as a whole, deserves to 
be called vigorous, is tersely told. . . . The author’s ability to depict the 
mental and moral struggles of those who are poor, and who believe them- 
selves oppressed, is also evident in his management of the strike and in 
his delineation of the characters of Sam Sleeny, a carpenter’s journeyman, 
and Ananias Offit, the villain of the story. . . . The characters who bring 
into play and work out the author’s ideas are all well drawn, and their in- 
dividuality maintained and developed with a distinctness that shows inti- 
mate familiarity with the subject, as well as unquestionable ability in deal- 
ing with it. — N. Y. Evening Telegram. 


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AT THE RED GLOVE 


A Novel. Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart, pp. 246 . 
12mo, Extra Cloth, $1 50. 


We have tried to express our admiration of the brilliant talents which 
the “ Red Glove ” displays — the accurate knowledge shown of localities ; 
the characteristics of the surrounding population, and the instinctive read- 
ing of the inner selves of the various personages who figure in the story. . . . 
A charming idyl. — JV. Y. Mail and Express. 

The execution is admirable. . . . The characters are the clearest studies, 
and are typical of a certain phase of French life. . . . The story is fanciful, 
graceful, and piquant, and Reinhart’s illustrations add to its flavor. — Bos- 
ton Journal. 

The peculiar vivacity of the French style is blended with a subtle char- 
acter-analysis that is one of the best things in that line that has been pro- 
duced for a long time. It is one of the most brilliant pieces of literary 
work that has appeared for years, and the interest is sustained almost 
breathlessly. — Boston Evening Traveller. 

The authoress of “At the Red Glove ” knows how to paint a flesh-and- 
blood woman, grateful to all the senses, and respectable for the qualities 
of her mind and heart. . . . All in all, “ At the Red Glove ” is one of the 
most delightful of novels since Miss Woolson wrote “For the Major.” — 
N. Y. Times. 

The novel is one of the best things of the summer as a delicious bit of 
entertainment, prepared with perfect art and presented without a sign of 
effort. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

It is an artistic and agreeable reproduction, in bright colors, of French 
sentiment and feeling. ... It is an abiding relief to read it, after such 
studies as novels in this country fashionably impose. — Boston Globe. 

A charming little story. . . . The characters are well drawn, with fresh- 
ness and with adequacy of treatment, and the style is crisp and ofttimes 
trenchant. — Boston Advertiser. 

A very pretty story, simply and exquisitely told. . . . The ups and downs 
of the courtship are drawn with a master’s hand. — Cincinnati Inquirer. 

There has been no such pleasant novel of Swiss social life as this. . . . 
The book is one that tourists and summer idlers will do well to add to 
their travelling libraries for the season. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 


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UPON A CAST 


A Novel. By Charlotte Dunning, pp. 330. 16mo, 

Cloth, $1 00. 

It embodies throughout the expressions of genuine American frank* 
ness, is well conceived, well managed, and brought to a delightful 
and captivating close. — Albany Press. 

The author writes this story of American social life in an interest- 
ing manner, . . . The style of the writing is excellent, and the dia- 
logue clever. — N. T. Times. 

This story is strong in plot, and its characters are drawn with a 
firm and skilful hand. They seem like real people, and their acts 
and words, their fortunes and misadventures, are made to engage the 
reader’s interest and sympathy. — Worcester Daily Spy. 

The character painting is very well done. . . . The sourest cynic 
that ever sneered at woman cannot but find the little story vastly 
entertaining. — Commercial Bulletin , Boston. 

The life of a semi-metropolitan village, with its own aristocracy, 
gossips, and various other qualities of people, is admirably por- 
trayed. . . . The book fascinates the reader from the first page to 
the last. — Boston Traveller. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the charac- 
ters — all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance— are por- 
trayed with great distinctness. The book is written in an entertain- 
ing and vivacious style, and is destined to provide entertainment for 
a large number of readers. — Christian at Work , N. Y. 

One of the best — if not the very best — of the society novels of the 
season. — Detroit Free Press. 

Of peculiar interest as regards plot, and with much grace and 
freshness of style. — Brooklyn Times. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the characters 
— all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance — are portrayed 
with great distinctness. —Episcopal B / ecorder i Philadelphia. 

A clever and entertaining novel. It is wholly social, and the 
theatre is a small one ; but the characters are varied and are drawn 
with a firm hand ; the play of human passion and longing is well- 
defined and brilliant ; and the movement is effective and satisfac- 
tory. . . . The love story is as good as the social study, making alto- 
gether an uncommonly entertaining book for vacation reading. — 
Wilmington (Del.) Morning News. 


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“AS WE WENT MARCHING ON.” 


A Story of the War. By G. W. Hosmer, M.D. pp. 310. 
16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

A skilful blending of plot with descriptions of active operations in the 
field. An attractive book. — N. Y. Sun. 

It seems to be all true excepting, perhaps, the names of the heroes and 
heroines. The author’s battle sketches are good, his characters natural, 
and his conversations neatly managed. — N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

A vivid, somewhat exciting story, in which the experiences of army life 
are told in a way that makes them sound like the author’s own, and in 
which the narrative is conducted by Mars and Cupid alternately. — Phila- 
delphia Inquirer. 

This is really a fine story, in which marching and fighting and love are 
blended, yet one never interferes with the other. ... Of the picturesque- 
ness of camp life, the rude comfort of the bivouac, the hardships of the 
march, there is not in all the war history with which we are acquainted 
any such forceful description as in this little volume. — Rochester' Herald. 

Interesting, both as a novel and as a description of the actual life of the 
soldier — the discomforts of rainy nights, muddy roads, and a hungry 
bivouac in a country filled with foes. . . . The various military incidents — 
the night marches, the annihilation of infantry surprised by calvary, the 
gathering roar and surging tide of a great battle — are given with the en- 
thralling energy peculiar to the eye-witness. — Commercial Bulletin , Boston. 

A well-told soldier’s romance, commencing in the Blue Ridge wilderness 
of Virginia about the time of Pope’s disastrous campaign, and ending with 
Sheridan’s ride up the valley and converting defeat into victory at Fisher 
Hill. ... A war story superior to any with which we are acquainted. It is 
admirable as to plot and characters, as to the picturesque and effective 
background of military life, and as to its pure, graceful, and vigorous 
English. — Pittsburgh Post. 

Dr. Hosmer has written a spirited story that will interest old campaign- 
ers on both sides of the rebellion conflict. The clash and roar of battle 
are distinctly heard in some of his chapters. A good story for the home 
camp-fire. — Troy Press. 

This is a well-written and interesting story, in which domestic incidents 
and home affections blend with the roar of battle and the taking of pris- 
oners. The writer shows considerable knowledge of the actions and posi- 
tions on both sides in Virginia, where the scene is laid. — Brooklyn Eagle. 

A well-told, interesting story, with just enough of war, deceit, and love 
in it to be heartily enjoyable. — Hartford Post. 


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VIRGINIA ff. JOHNSON’S WORKS. 


A SACK OF GOLD. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 35 cents. 

JOSEPH THE JEW. The Story of an Old House. 8vo, 

Paper, 40 cents. 

MISS NANCY’S PILGRIMAGE. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 
40 cents. 

THE CALDERWOOD SECRET. A Novel. 8vo, Paper, 

40 cents. 

THE NEPTUNE YASE. A Novel. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 

TULIP PLACE. A Novel. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

TWO OLD CATS. A Novel. 4to, Paper, 15 cents. 

THE CATSKILL FAIRIES. Illustrated by Alfred Fred- 
ericks. Square 8vo, Illuminated Cloth, Gilt Edges, $3 00. 

Her novels are replete with dramatic incident; the style is clear and 
simple narration, with true insight into character. — Brooklyn Times. 

“ The Catskill Fairies ” is a really charming collection of little stories, 
in which an attempt, and a successful one at that, is made to open up a 
vein of national fairy lore. There are twelve stories in all, told with 
much force and delicacy of style, together with a quaintness and a sim- 
plicity that are equally attractive and delightful. There is a playful 
humor, too, in the manner of telling these pretty tales that is not the least 
of their claims to attention. . . . The book is copiously and admirably 
illustrated by Alfred Fredericks, who here fully makes good his title to 
be considered the best book illustrator in the country. His pictures are 
not only fine in drawing and rich in effect, but they abound in character, 
thought, and originality. — Saturday Evening Gazette , Boston. 

One of the most exquisitely appropriate volumes for the young that 
could be devised — exquisite in its paper, binding, typography, and illus- 
trations, and equally so in the graceful, eventful, half -mysterious tales 
which it contains. Miss Johnson tells a fairy story to perfection — as if 
she believed it herself — and with a wealth of tricksome and frolic fancy 
that will delight the young and old alike. . . . Nor could anything be de- 
vised more apposite to the holidays, or more appropriate for a gift, than 
this charming book. — Christian Intelligencer , N. Y. 

It is handsome in make-up, is beautifully illustrated, and is as interest- 
ing as could be desired. . . . Miss Johnson evidently understands juvenile 
literary needs. — Brooklyn Eagle. 


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J. S. WINTERS NOVELS 


MIGNON; OR, BOOTLESS BABY. Illustrated. 16mo, Paper, 
25 cents. 

A charming little story of military life. — JY. Y. Sun. 

It is a light story of garrison life, with enough of a mystery to make it 
interesting to the end, and with a touch of pathos which is excellently 
done. — Boston Courier . 

It is just the kind of book to help one to pass a summer afternoon 
pleasantly. The story treats of English regimental life, and relates the 
adventures of a stray baby, unceremoniously presented to one of the char- 
acters, in a striking and amusing manner. — Boston Commonwealth. 

This is a pretty little story of barrack life, having for its central figure 
a precocious little sprite, who dances about a manly soldier of the best 
sort. The story is well told. — Providence Telegram . 

HOUP-LA, Illustrated. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

It is a pathetic story, and abounds in incident. — N. Y. Sun. 

A story of adventure, exciting situations, strange scenes, odd charac- 
ters, and of absorbing interest. — Albany Press. 

A touching story of a waif rescued from a cruel master by an English 
army officer. — Philadelphia Inquirer. 

Avery amusing and, in its close, pathetic story of humble constancy and 
heroism. — Zion's Herald, Boston. 

IN QUAETEES WITH THE 25TH (THE BLACK HOESE) 
DEAGOONS. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

Its jollity and fun are exemplified by practical jokes and deliberate wag- 
gishness, and at the same time there are not wanting bits of pathos and 
genuine heroism. The narrative is unflaggingly interesting and at times 
very dramatic. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

Well worth reading. . . . Written in a lively and forcible style, and is one 
of the books which it is a pleasure to pick up when one wishes entertain- 
ing reading matter for a short time. Besides, being more or less stories 
of adventure, and the same characters occurring in more than one of 
them, the interest continues until the book is finished. — Boston Times. 

A MAH OF HONOR. Illustrated. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

CAVALRY LIFE. 16 mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

ARMY SOCIETY: Life in a Garrison Town. Illustrated. 
16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

PLUCK. 16 mo, Paper, 25 cents. 


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W. E. NORRIS’S NOVELS 


A discriminating public has lately become assured that Mr. Norris is a 
novelist from whom they have a right to expect much. Mr. Norris seems 
to have set out upon his literary career with the intention of writing slow- 
ly, perhaps not a great deal, and with an effort to be always at his best. — 
Independent, N. Y. 

In humor and gentle pathos Mr. Norris shows resemblances to Trollope. 
He has studied Trollope with advantage. He has caught Trollope’s genial 
manner in drawing people as they are. — Athenaeum, London. 

Mr. Norris’s very clever and delightful books are almost the sole sur- 
vival of the great period of English novels, and are a distinct boon to those 
readers whose taste was formed by Miss Austen and Thackeray. — Lippin- 
cotVs Magazine. 

A MAN OF HIS WORD, and Other Stories. 4to, Paper, 
20 cents. 

ADRIAN YIDAL. Illustrated. 4to, Paper, 25 cents. 

HEAPS OF MONEY. 8vo, Paper, 15 cents. 

HER OWN DOING. 16mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

MADEMOISELLE DE MERSAC. 4to, Paper, 20 cents. 

MATRIMONY. 4to, Paper. 20 cents. 

NO NEW THING. 4to, Paper, 25 cents. 

THAT TERRIBLE MAN. 12mo, Paper, 25 cents. 

THIRLBY HALL. Illustrated by W. Small. 4 to, Paper, 25 
cents. 


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DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY’S NOVELS, 


Mr. Christie Murray is a kindly satirist, who evidently delights in the 
analysis of character, and who deals shrewdly, but gently, with the frail- 
ties of our nature. . . . The pages are perpetually brightened by quaintly 
humorous touches. Often in describing some character, or something 
that is commonplace enough, a droll fancy seems to strike the author, 
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